


If You Can’t Stand The Heat

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Chef rivalry, M/M, Modern AU, Professional chefs, musketeers modern au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-24 12:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 38,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14954804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: From a prompt by FromPella, who wanted an AU with Athos and Porthos as chefs at war in the kitchen. It’s only about two years too late.





	1. Chapter 1

Porthos du Vallon was a man with a true passion for food. As far as he was concerned, nothing came close to the unadulterated pleasure of experiencing new flavour combinations — not even sex. There was no holiday he enjoyed more than to travel the world on a shoestring budget, spending every spare penny in tiny back street restaurants and then sweet talking the chefs into giving up their secrets. 

But Porthos not only ate food, he also dreamt it, lived it, and, most of all, had an overwhelming desire to cook it. Badgering someone into giving him a job as a kitchen porter had been the beginning of that culinary love affair. At sixteen, having just left school and eager to start out on his journey, working at La Garnison meant everything to Porthos. The miniscule starting salary was barely enough to cover the rent for a squalid basement room, but that didn’t matter because he would live in the restaurant kitchen if he were allowed, listening to the head chef bark out orders as he quietly washed pots and pans and lapped up all the knowledge.

La Garnison may have been small, but it was gaining a solid reputation in Paris as a place that served quality food. Its owner, Jean Treville, was an astute boss. He knew that Porthos aspired to do more than clean the surfaces for a day’s pay, and within months had put him to work peeling potatoes and gutting fish. Soon the young apprentice was showing a mature understanding of food, developing an excellent palate, and before long he was promoted again, working now as sous chef where he grabbed the opportunity to invent his own dishes for the current head of the kitchen who was far too lazy to do anything but take credit.

Today seemed to bear all the hallmarks of an ordinary, rather drizzly Tuesday afternoon in Paris. At La Garnison, they were nearing the end of lunchtime service and as usual the restaurant was packed to its ancient rafters, but beneath the hum of happy foodies there was an inexplicable quiver of tension in the air.

“Something feels off,” muttered Porthos, mostly to himself.

“And, unlike you, I happen to know exactly what that something is,” teased Aramis.

The chef pâtissier had recently taken over the pastry station and in no time at all had become one of Porthos’ best friends. But not for much longer if he didn’t tell all.

“That feeling you can sense is the imminent eruption of a volcano,” continued Aramis, as he piped a final batch of beignets into sizzling oil.

“What _are_ you going on about?” grumbled Porthos. “Speak up, or shut up.”

“Bonnaire’s leaving,” said Aramis. “He’s telling Treville right at this moment.”

“Are you sure?” asked Porthos, excitement building inside him. He didn’t doubt Aramis, who had a way of wheedling truths out of people, but at the same time he didn’t dare hope.

“Yep, and he wants to go immediately. He’s been offered a TV show. It’s all he’s ever dreamed of apparently.” Aramis patted Porthos on the back. “Just think. Soon he’ll be teaching bored housewives how to make your recipes.”

“I don’t think he has a clue,” chuckled Porthos. “He’ll have to speed read a load of cook books to come up with a few ideas of his own.” He then paused and collected his thoughts. “Mate, do you reckon I have a chance of taking over from him?”

“Who else is there?” said d’Artagnan, the newest member of the team, who was leaning on a mop handle and listening in to their conversation. 

This one was a cheeky blighter to be sure, but he was destined to go far, thought Porthos. Like him, the young man was full of ambition, but his extended far beyond dreaming up new dishes. He had no doubt that before long d’Artagnan would be launching his own chain of restaurants.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid,” he said, getting a head start with mise en place for the evening. La Garnison was fully booked as always.

Through the humid air of the kitchen came a dull rumble of an argument, like thunder on a summer’s evening.

Aramis looked at Porthos and winked. “The familiar call of an angry boss,” he murmured. “Wait for it.”

Treville was a lovely bloke, but he was also an irascible one and not one of the kitchen team had escaped a sound telling off. There was, however, always good reason for them. The man was firm but fair.

“You’re a disloyal and dishonourable bastard, Bonnaire.” There came the sound of a door being wrenched from its hinges. “Get out of my restaurant now.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but what can I say? Opportunity knocked and I could hardly ignore it.” Bonnaire was a charmer by nature, but right now he wasn’t charming one Jean Armand Treville.

“Get out.”

“I’m perfectly happy to finish off service tonight,” said the head chef.

“Get. Out.”

The storm was about to break. Aramis looked at Porthos then grinned and ducked behind the counter.

“Well, if you insist.” 

A door slammed, the sound ricocheting down the narrow corridors of the restaurant, and a minute later Emile Bonnaire swaggered into the kitchen, walking over to his immaculate station and packing away his knives. “I’m sorry to say that this is the end of an era, boys,” he announced with false pathos. “From now on my wife and I are going to be presenting a new cooking show for Saturday morning television. Although,” he mused aloud. “I’m not entirely certain that Maria is _quite_ the right choice for co host. I may have to audition.”

“Break a leg, Chef,” said Porthos, meaning it quite literally. Whatever this might hold in store for him career wise, he still despised the man for leaving Treville in the lurch.

“Merci beaucoup. Au revoir et bonne chance,” replied Bonnaire, and with a flamboyant wave of his hand, apron discarded on the bench, he left La Garnison, on his way to greener pastures. 

Keeping their heads down, the remainder of the staff continued on with their prep, waiting for the inevitable thundercloud to loom over the horizon. 

Sure enough Treville soon appeared in the doorway, his face marred from frown lines. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the news by now.” He glared at Aramis. “ _You_ probably knew before I did.”

Aramis took a ball of pastry dough out of the mixer and wrapped it ready for the refrigerator. “Why worry,” he said airily. “Porthos taught the man everything he knew.”

Treville's frown grew ever more ingrained. “Can the three of you manage service on your own tonight?”

“With our eyes closed,” Aramis assured him.

Treville turned to Porthos for some down to earth answers. “Tell me the truth, lad. Can you run the pass _and_ do the cooking?”

“Easy.” Porthos nodded. “Not a problem, M Treville.”

“You’re a good man,” said Treville. “What would I do without you?”

*

That evening, service went more smoothly than ever. With a record number of covers under their belts, they were even able to squeeze in a large table of Irish rugby players who'd been bumped from another restaurant for turning up too late. Because of this the kitchen was open until long past midnight, and so, by the time cleaning was complete, everyone was shattered. 

“Well done, boys,” said Constance who headed up front of house at La Garnison. “It couldn’t have gone better. Good riddance to Bonnaire.”

“I’d rather not hear that name ever again,’ said Treville, appearing at her shoulder. “But you’re right, Mme Bonacieux. Well done the lot of you. Go home and get some shut eye because we’re fully booked again tomorrow.” He looked satisfied, in fact nigh on smug as he smiled at everyone. “I have some news to tell you, but we’ll leave it for the morning.”

“Tell us now,” said Aramis. “You know you want to.”

“What I _want_ to do is lock up and then pour myself a large brandy,” replied Treville, rattling his keys at them. “Now scoot, the lot of you.”

Following orders, they all high tailed it out of the building at double quick time.

The night seemed new, different somehow, and Porthos breathed in lungfuls of air, drawing in the scent of the rain washed city.

“How about a drink?” suggested Aramis as they were about to part company at the crossroads. 

Porthos was exhausted and yet, at the same time, hyped up from excitement. Maybe a nightcap would help. “Okay, but just the one,” he said.

“Exciting day tomorrow,” agreed Aramis as he draped an arm around Porthos and herded him in the direction of their favourite night owl bar. “Bleary eyes are not a good idea.” He then turned to the waitress and smiled. “Bottle of Bordeaux and two glasses, my darling.”

“I said just the one.” Porthos rolled his eyes, wondering if Aramis would ever listen to a word he said.

“If I’m lucky, Adele will help me finish what’s left after she closes up,” his friend replied, his words accompanied by a nod in the direction of the pretty barmaid.

“You're always lucky when it comes to pulling women.” Porthos laughed and chose a table by the window. He loved to watch Paris by night. 

“That’s because I put in the effort whereas you’re too busy thinking up new dishes.” Aramis poured the wine. “I make pâttisserie. I _dream_ about women.”

“Eat to live and live to eat. We come at this from very different angles, bruv,” said Porthos. He couldn’t honestly remember the last time he’d experienced as much satisfaction in bed as he had from being in the kitchen. 

“I come from all angles,” said Aramis, that wicked grin lighting up his face. “As I hope to be proving Iater.” He raised his glass. “To the new head chef of La Garnison. Congratulations, my friend. No one could possibly deserve it more.”

“Don’t,” said Porthos still not daring to dream. Just thinking about it might prove to be a jinx.

*What other news could it be?” shrugged Aramis. “Now that the promotion's a done deal we must turn our attention to your love life. A side of salmon won’t keep you warm and happy at night.”

“It’s good enough company for me,” chuckled Porthos, already thinking up exciting new ways to present the king of fish.

 

—


	2. Chapter 2

Physically exhausted yet mentally relaxed, Porthos slept well, breakfasted heartily and then set out for La Garnison, determined not to let any excitement show on his face. It was another wet day and so he took the bus to work, scribbling away in a notebook as he tinkered with his own avant garde menu, no longer limited by Bonnaire's mundane palate.

For years he had been developing these ideas, combining fascinating new ingredients from the other side of the world and adapting them for the French market. He knew what his customers liked. He’d heard the feedback and digested all the compliments, even if, up until now, they had never been directed at him.

All was quiet at La Garnison when he arrived. Only Jacques was in the kitchen, standing at the sink and preparing vegetables for the day.

“Are the deliveries here yet?” Porthos asked impatiently.

“No, Chef,” replied the kitchen porter.

Porthos paced the corridors, too wound up to sit still. In the early hours of the morning he had amended their online order, adding some unusual ingredients to make his food sing. Now he was frantically hoping that he hadn’t been too late in doing so.

When the van arrived he searched through the boxes, eyeing each new and beautiful treasure and then planning the finishing touches to his special for the day. By rights it should be tested before it was put in front of the customers, but Porthos had faith in himself. He’d instinctively know if it was working.

Glancing out of the window, he was just in time to see Aramis saunter inside, closely followed by Constance and d’Artagnan. The young couple had been together for some time, but were doing their best to keep things on the downlow. Constance was unhappily married, her husband an emotional bully who had vowed to never let her break free of him. Porthos hated to see his friends suffer and looked away to allow them a moment of privacy as they shared a kiss, concentrating instead on his own true love.

“Who was that chap?” said Aramis. “Came in a second ago. Scruffy, nose in the air, looked straight through me as if I didn't exist.”

“Didn't see him,” said Porthos, waving a spoon at Aramis. “Here, try this.”

Identifying the contents, Aramis tried to evade the cutlery at all costs. “No, damn you, I hate sea urchin,” he declared through clenched teeth. But Porthos was determined and when the food finally ended up in Aramis’ mouth his expression changed from fear to one of happy surprise. “That's really good, mon ami. What miracle have you worked?”

“Chironja compliments it well. It’s a Caribbean fruit. You like?”

“I like,” said Aramis, nodding emphatically.

“You’ll like it even more when you see how well it goes with spiced veal,” declared Porthos.

“Surely that’ll kill it,” said Aramis.

“Only if the allspice is too heavy. I'm also thinking of making the urchin into a custard.”

Aramis looked concerned. “Do what you do best, Porthos. People come here for big, flavours and honest food. You’re in danger of overplaying your hand.”

“Let me try,” said Porthos. “Just as a test run.”

“Then on your head be it,” said Aramis, getting on with his parfait. “Jacques, I need tonka beans and white chocolate STAT.”

Showing off lightning quick reactions, the kitchen porter charged into the stores as if he were competing in the Olympic final of the hundred metres.

“D’Artagnan, you need to french trim racks of lamb and then fillet and pinbone the salmon,” ordered Porthos, as soon as his apprentice entered the kitchen. “I need you to step up today, so stop daydreaming and get busy.”

“Yes, Chef,” said the young man, tying his apron and fixing his cap in place. “At the double.”

Head down, Porthos also worked at full speed, frying the marinated veal then making the urchin into a light set custard. He tasted the sauce, happy it that would bring everything together, and was about to serve up the tester plate to Aramis when Treville marched into the kitchen.

“Bonjour. It’s good to see you all working so diligently,” said the boss. “I have the utmost pleasure in introducing you to the new head chef of La Garnison.”

Porthos’ heart began to run away with itself, beats tumbling out of control. This was it. This was his moment.

“This is Athos,” continued Treville with an outstretched arm, and from the shadows emerged a scruffy, unshaven man, dressed as down as down could be in rumpled jeans and an over washed sweatshirt.

Porthos schooled his features, trying his best to rein in the frustration and disappointment at being overlooked. Athos de la Fère was legendary, the head chef of Cardinal, a three Michelin starred restaurant that was renowned throughout Europe for serving classic French cuisine at its most perfect. _And_ , thought Porthos, its most boring. There was not an inventive bone in the man’s body. Everything he produced was something Escoffier would have been proud of centuries ago.

Slowly Treville led his prize around the kitchen, smiling with satisfaction as he introduced Athos to each member of the staff, finally ending up at Porthos’ station.

“And this young man is Porthos du Vallon,” said Treville. “He took over last night after Bonnaire's sudden departure and did a fantastic job. You’ll soon find you rely on him as much as I do.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, thought Porthos. Rely on me, but don’t trust me to take over your bloody kitchen. Parachute in some fucking flash git, all substance and no style. Fuming with anger, he stared Athos down, pleased at the massive advantage he had in height and build.

“You sound promising,” said Athos, studying him with interest, apparently not recognising that he was at a disadvantage. “Where did you train?”

“Here,” growled Porthos. “Been here since I was a kid.”

“Working under Bonnaire?” Athos raised a speculative eyebrow.

“You could say that,” replied Porthos.

Without even asking, Athos forked up veal, urchin and sauce from the plate and tasted it. Eyes darting to the right, he cocked his head thoughtfully to one side and then placed the silverware in the sink without uttering a single comment.

Desperate to know what he thought, Porthos was too proud to ask and instead remained silent, seething that his plans had all been for nothing. 

“Don’t worry,” murmured Aramis once Athos had moved on from their bench. “He won’t be here long. By all accounts, he and his wife are inseparable — at work and at play.”

Porthos sighed, eyes fixed on Athos as the new head chef finished his tour of the kitchen and then vanished upstairs, Treville’s hand resting possessively at the small of his back.

“I’d heard on the grapevine that there had been a few ructions at Cardinal recently, but—“

“Do me a favour and shut that big gob of yours, Aramis,” said Porthos, utterly disheartened. So miserable, in fact, that he could feel the sting of tears for the first time since childhood.

“It’s pretty cliquey here,” remarked d’Artagnan. “I know I found it hard to settle at the beginning. Maybe this Athos bloke will too.”

Aramis looked baffled. He was a man who never found it difficult to fit in anywhere, but Porthos understood what d’Artagnan was saying. As a child, he had been a casualty of the system, shunted from children’s homes to foster care with frightening regularity, where on occasion his arrival had been met with downright hostility. They needn’t go that far, but a little unfriendliness wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.

A few minutes later Athos strode back into the kitchen. “Gentlemen, for the remainder of this week you will be cooking your usual menu. However, I shall be adding some of my own dishes to the board.”

Porthos’ heart sank still further. The specials board had been his lair — a place to try out some of his more experimental food. Now it would become the playground of their new head chef.

“I’d like to visit the pantries,” continued Athos in a quiet but nonetheless authoritative tone, the words aimed directly at Porthos. “If you would be so kind.”

Condescending prick, thought Porthos as he showed him to the food storage area with its well organised refrigerators, freezers and racks of produce.

“I approve,” said Athos, taking notes as he examined the shelves of the small walk in meat locker. “You run the place very well indeed.”

“All stock is listed on the computer,” said Porthos. He had designed this himself and was very proud of it. “Just tell me any extras you want ordering and I’ll contact the suppliers.”

“If you show me the system then I’ll do it myself,” suggested Athos. “I’m sure it won’t be that different from Cardinal.”

Porthos was hard pushed not to let loose a few of his best expletives. The smug bastard was intent on taking over from him completely. Serge, the former head chef here, had been a good teacher, but was stuck in his ways, happy to let Porthos update where necessary. His replacement, Bonnaire, had been a lazy man, allowing his staff to fly free. Athos, however, was a very different proposition, asserting himself from day one and letting everybody know that he was in charge.

 

—


	3. Chapter 3

Slowly, one plate at a time, the menu at La Garnison changed from free form fusion to classic French cuisine. In the beginning, Porthos had expected to see a decline in bookings, but instead the tables remained stubbornly full. He had also been hopeful that some of the regulars would depart, or at very least ask why the Caribbean influence was missing, but there were no comments from front of house.

“Boys, Louis Bourbon will be dining here tonight,” announced Constance, her eyes wide with excitement. “It’s official this time and Treville is insisting on everything being faultless.”

“When doesn’t he?” muttered Porthos, still trapped in his slough of despond.

Aramis responded more positively with a cavalier bow and a wide grin. “As you wish, Madame. My new coconut and banana dacquoise will be spectacular.”

“Who’s Louis Bourbon?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Only the most brutal restaurant critic ever,” explained Constance. “He’s eaten here before but never bothered to review us.”

“On the surface his columns seem genial enough, but dig deeper and they’re viciously snide, full of put downs,” said Aramis. “He’s a little beast. The only restaurant he gives positive reviews to all the time is Cardinal, and that’s because he’s bosom buddies with the owner Richelieu.”

“Nepotism rules the foodie world,” grumbled Porthos.

“I believe you’ll find that nepotism rules the entire world,” said Athos, appearing in the kitchen, dressed immaculately in chef’s whites. “Listen up, gentlemen. There are no major changes to the menu tonight. We have sole bonne femme new to the specials board and coquilles St Jacques as an entrée, but other than that, it’s business as usual.”

“Boring bloody mid century food,” complained Porthos in an aside to Aramis. “Next thing you know we’ll be serving duck a l’orange.”

Silence reigned supreme in the kitchen and Porthos had a distinct feeling that his words had carried further than intended. A quick look confirmed his suspicions. Athos was staring at him, arms folded and with an eyebrow raised quizzically.

“You have concerns over the menu, M du Vallon?”

“Nothing specific,” replied Porthos, feeling a trifle overwhelmed. The head chef might be silent to the point of morose, but he was, at the same time, most definitely the boss.

“Well then, how about you generalise,” suggested Athos. “I take it you consider my food to be old fashioned?”

“A bit,” admitted Porthos. 

“You think that duck would be a poor addition?”

Porthos stood his ground. “I think duck a l’orange would be a god awful mistake.” 

“A perfectly cooked duck with crispy skin and a citrus sauce is an excellent dish for any French restaurant.” Athos shrugged. “In fact, we shall serve it next week. Thank you for your input, M du Vallon. Now please get on with mise en place. You’ll find recipes for the new dishes at my station.”

“Don’t know how much longer I can work here,” growled Porthos once Athos had left the kitchen.

“Don’t let it get you down,” replied Aramis, consoling him with a floury pat on the back. “You’re still young. Just think of it as mastering the art of French cookery.” He slipped into a terrible impression of Julia Child. “If you’re afraid of butter, use cream.”

Porthos couldn’t help but laugh as he imagined Athos dressed up as the infamous American cook, wearing twinset and pearls, complete with neatly curled wig.

They spent the rest of the prep time commentating on their work in the voices of different chefs and the afternoon became full of wisecracks and good spirits. It was almost as if Athos had never even existed.

*

Snatching time for a quick power nap in the break room, Porthos showered and then grabbed a bite to eat, returning afterwards to his work bench, ready for the onslaught of service.

He arrived in the kitchen to find Athos pacing the pass. The head chef seemed nervy and fretful and this was so unlike his normal ice cool demeanour that Porthos experienced an unexpected twinge of sympathy. 

“Everything okay, Chef?” he asked.

Athos looked up, blinking in surprise and then nodded. “Thank you. Yes. I don’t like to know in advance when critics will be dining. Especially when it’s M Bourbon.”

“I’ve never met him in person,” said Aramis. “What’s he like?”

“Mean, sycophantic, needlessly cruel,” said Athos. “A nasty piece of work.”

“And yet he’s never given you a bad review,” said Porthos. “Why so much hate?”

Athos frowned. “Just make sure your cooking is impeccable,” he said. “That man will exploit the tiniest of errors.”

The team at La Garnison may have been small, but it was perfectly formed. Under pressure they worked as a single entity, helping each other out when necessary until the evening’s service was complete.

Treville was beaming from ear to ear when he came backstage at midnight to praise them on a job well done.

“I couldn’t have asked for more,” he said, full of pride. “Louis is impressed and would like to thank all four of you in person.”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a glance. Both of them had been fascinated by Athos’ description of the restaurant critic and here was the perfect opportunity to see for themselves how accurate it had been.

“I’ll pass, if you don’t mind,” said Athos, not bothering to come up with an excuse.

“I do mind, as it happens.” Treville narrowed his eyes. “I mind very much indeed. My reputation is at stake here, Athos. A bad review could cause no end of trouble for La Garnison so I strongly suggest you go out there and suck up to the little prick.”

“Treville?” 

There was weight behind the single word, but Porthos had no idea what this confrontation was actually about.

Athos paused and then folded his arms. “I’ll do it, but only if you insist.”

“I insist,” said the boss. “Go now. The king of the critics awaits your presence.”

Louis Bourbon was lounging at one of the intimate tables for two in a cozy corner of the restaurant. He was not at all what Porthos expected, outlandishly attired in a royal blue three piece suit and dripping with gold jewellery. His long hair was dyed a deep ebony, probably to cover up some premature greying, and was tied back in a ponytail that draped over one shoulder like a snake.

Also unexpected was the presence of a beautiful woman who was seated opposite the critic, dressed simply but stylishly in what any self respecting Frenchman would recognise as vintage Chanel. She was yin to Louis’ yang, elegant where he was gaudy, and, to add to the contrast, she smiled engagingly up at them.

“Ah, the three musketeers are here,” announced Louis, with his nose in the air. “Plus their dear little apprentice. I applaud you all for your efforts tonight.”

“Thank you,” said Athos stiffly. “I am most pleased to hear that you enjoyed the food.”

“The sole bonne femme was a delight,” said Louis’ companion. “Beautifully flavoured and yet not too rich as it often can be.”

“Thank you again,” said Athos, loosening up enough to attempt a half smile.

“My good woman apparently enjoyed yours,” said Louis with a giggle. “How amusing. Do you not think so, Anne?”

“Indeed,” she replied. “But don’t overdo your jokes, my dear. One is enough for an evening.”

“My wife is right as always,” said Louis, not bothering with introductions. “I shall save my infamous wit for the papers.”

“The white chocolate parfait was also delicious,” said Anne. “Was that tonka bean I could taste?”

“It was indeed,” said Aramis. “A parfait should, by definition, be perfection. I hope mine came close.”

“It did indeed,” smiled Anne. “We’ll be back very soon to enjoy more of your excellent food. Thank you all so much.”

Athos nodded brusquely. “Good night.”

“You _will_ stay and have a drink with us?” said Louis, raising his glass at Athos. “Brandies all round, Treville.”

It was close to an order, something that made Porthos feel distinctly uncomfortable. “Sorry to decline the invite,” he said, doing his best to ease the tension. “But I have to be up early in the morning. Us cooks work pretty much twenty four seven. We have to grab a few Z’s where we can.”

“All work and no play makes Chef a very dull boy indeed,” said Louis and once again his eyes were glued to Athos. “Still, if you’re exhausted then I shan’t force you. Goodnight, Musketeers. We’ll meet again soon.”

“Au revoir,” added Anne.

“Delighted to make your acquaintances.” Aramis then leant forward, taking Anne’s hand in his and kissing it gallantly. “Enchantée, Madame.”

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” chuckled Porthos as the two friends made their way back to the kitchen, trailing behind Athos and d’Artagnan. “A good looking woman is your kryptonite.”

“Chicken soup for my soul,” agreed Aramis with a grin.

“Well this particular one is married to Paris’ most vicious food critic so keep your grubby paws off her,” growled Treville as he caught up with them after saying goodbye to the Bourbons. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, M d’Herblay. You have been warned.”

 

—


	4. Chapter 4

Waiting for the review column to be published was like being trapped inside purgatory. Conversation at La Garnison had become a dying art form, and even Aramis, the chattiest man on the planet, remained disturbingly quiet. When anyone _did_ speak, it was only to offer up opinions on where the critic could possibly find fault.

If the others were silent then Athos had become a virtual statue, his Greek profile perfectly suited to the medium of marble. Pale and morose, he wandered the corridors of the restaurant, avoiding the kitchen as much as possible and only turning up to run the pass.

“It can’t be _that_ bad,” said d’Artagnan, trying to gee everyone up, and the black look he received from Athos was destined to go down in legend .

A day later, when service had finished for the evening, Treville strode into the kitchen, waving a newspaper. “It’s in,” he said, looking at everyone in turn over the top of his glasses. 

“And?” demanded d'Artagnan, who might only be the apprentice here, but had a very forthright way about him.

“It’s good.” Treville let out the sigh that he had been holding onto for the past few days. “It’s bloody excellent in fact.”

Dispossessing the boss of his copy of the paper, Aramis flicked through the pages and then began to read aloud. “Centrally located and reasonably priced, La Garnison has always deserved its reputation as a reliable place to eat, however recently it has taken a giant leap forward with the acquisition of a legend in the cooking world, Athos de la Fére. The former head chef of Cardinal has brought with him his own contemporary twist to classic French cuisine, sky rocketing La Garnison up to the stars and pushing it into modernity. The menu is small but full of locally sourced, seasonal delights, and I will most certainly be dining there again.” Aramis looked up. “He gives it four stars. Highly recommended.”

“I told you so,” said Treville, an arm looped possessively around the waist of his treasured _acquisition_. “Have faith in yourself, Athos. You’re the best in Paris.” His eyes sparkled in the fluorescent strip lights, dreaming, no doubt, of a future filled with Michelin stars. “Come upstairs and we’ll discuss the specials for tomorrow.” Then, as If suddenly remembering that there were other cooks on the chef’s line, he looked back at the remainder of his team. “Well done to you all.”

Up until now, Porthos assumed that his level of frustration had already peaked, but tonight his bitterness was achieving spectacular new highs. Packing away his knives, he wondered seriously whether to jack it all in. Surely nothing could be worse than this?

“Don’t even think it,” said Aramis, reading his mind. “To be honest, I’m pretty pissed off with the situation myself. I’m beginning to wonder if we even exist.”

“We should go on strike,” suggested d’Artagnan. “Imagine Athos trying to do mise en place by himself and then cook for all the customers.”

But Porthos was a loyal man. Up until now, Treville had been really good to him, even if he _was_ finding it hard to see him as anything other than a sixteen year old kitchen hand. No, it was Athos who was at fault, barely even acknowledging the commitment and hard work shown by his team. Never once praising their creativity.

“I’m not leaving and I’m not going on strike,” he growled. “However I’m not against showing M de la Fère a very cold shoulder.”

“The silent treatment.” Aramis nodded in approval. “He won’t like that at all. He thrives on yes, Chef; no, Chef.”

*

The next day they were all in early and, after a quick huddle over coffee, it was agreed that their plan would be put into action immediately. As the hours passed by only one thing stood in their way and that was the frustrating lack of a head chef.

At noon Athos quite literally rolled in, ricocheting off the walls as he stumbled into the kitchen, almost falling to the floor in his efforts to take a seat at the bench.

“Get me coffee,” he slurred. “And a bucket of ice water.”

Even from ten feet away, Porthos could detect the stench of yesterday’s wine and heaving in a deep sigh he made his way over to Athos.

“You’re going in the shower now, Chef,” he said as he helped him to his feet. “Do you have any clean clothes in your locker?”

Athos looked up at him, eyes bleary and confused. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly.

“Then these’ll have to do for the day,” muttered Porthos as he hauled the drunken man in the direction of the small staff room, wondering, with grim fascination, why he was trying to help the stuck up git.

Aramis and d’Artagnan were obviously as bemused as he was by this turn of events, watching their slow progress with a matched set of gaping jaws.

Turning the shower to fully cold, Porthos wrestled Athos out of his clothes, leaving him to deal with boxers and t-shirt. “Take ‘em off before you get in or you’ll be wearing wet pants for the rest of the day,” he ordered as he escaped the tiny bathroom and sank down onto a threadbare couch. “I must be the world's biggest idiot,” he muttered, head in his hands.

A good half hour passed by before Athos emerged from the bathroom, cleaner, fresher, but wearing such a hangdog expression that, despite himself, Porthos almost burst out laughing. “Let’s get you a coffee and see if that helps. Don’t know why you didn’t phone in sick with a fantasy stomach upset.”

“Not fantasy,” groaned Athos, dry heaving and running for the toilet cubicle.

A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom once more, looking as miserable as sin, but a little less green.

“Feeling any better?” asked Porthos.

“No,” replied Athos, sad eyed and mournful. “Not in the slightest.”

“Most chefs get drunk after a bad review, not after a good one,” remarked Porthos as he held open the door of the staff room. “What’s the deal?”

“I don’t know,” replied Athos. “I don’t understand the world.”

“You and me both, brother,” replied Porthos as he offered the man an arm to lean on.

The headache must have been bad. Athos remained grim faced and upright as they made their way back to the kitchen, but with every step taken Porthos could detect tiny tremors of pain, miniature electric shocks emanating from the ghostly presence at his side.

“Thank you,” muttered Athos as he accepted a coffee, his words still slurring into one.

“Stay where you are and hopefully Treville won’t notice anything’s wrong,” advised Porthos.

“What are you doing?” hissed d’Artagnan, signalling him over. “Why are you trying to sober him up? This is the perfect opportunity for us to get rid of a problem. The boss won’t put up with this kind of shit from anyone.”

“I dunno.” Porthos shrugged. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“I’m all for gallantry,” said Aramis. “But for once you ought to be thinking about yourself. Your problem is that you’re too kind for your own good.”

Porthos nodded, but despite everything he couldn’t help feeling that he’d done the right thing. It might be a case of shooting himself in the foot, but he’d do the same thing tomorrow,

None of this proved to be of any consequence, however, because the boss apparently had a sixth sense for these kind of matters. On entering the kitchen, Treville took one look at the head chef and promptly reached for his phone to call a local taxi company.

“Get your coat and go home, Athos,” he barked and then turned to Porthos. “You’ll be running the pass today, so get your skates on. I can see from a glance that we’re a long way behind where we should be.”

Without another word he ushered Athos outside and, through the window, Porthos could see them deep in solemn conversation.

“He’ll be getting his marching orders,” said Aramis. “There’s no way Treville will tolerate that kind of behaviour. Anyone that puts his beloved garrison in jeopardy will be out of the door before you can call service.”

Porthos nodded in agreement. The restaurant world was a harsh one. Chefs came and chefs went. Perhaps now it would be his time to shine.

*

Unfortunately the only thing shining next morning was the sun, and even that was tempered by an icy blast straight from the north east. Wrapped up warmly against the bitter cold wind, Porthos hurried into the staff room and was just hanging up his coat and hat in the locker when he felt a palm clamp down onto his shoulder. He turned, expecting to see Aramis, and was surprised to discover the head chef standing behind him, a penitent look on his face. It was one step up from the hangdog expression of yesterday. 

“Thank you for what you did,” said Athos softly. “It was good of you. I didn’t deserve such kindness.”

“Yeah well, no probs,” replied Porthos with a dismissive wave of the hand. “We have to look after our own, eh?”

Athos seemed flustered by this. “I’ve never been terribly successful at being part of a team. I hope to change that now that I'm here.”

“Have you seen Treville today?” questioned Porthos, pretty certain that Athos’ days as a member of this particular cohort were soon coming to an end.

“I have, yes,” replied Athos. “He’s given me a chance to redeem myself.” The corner of his mouth tipped upwards into a rueful smile. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

“Knowing what the specials are would be helpful,” said Porthos, falling back down to earth with a bump. He had to face facts. With his kind of shitty luck, he was never going to make it as head chef. Not here. Not anywhere.

“Duck breast,” said Athos, his eyes softening. “I thought you could serve it with some of your strange Caribbean fruits. Give it a try. See how it goes.”

“Yes, Chef.” Porthos was both surprised and delighted. He’d been handed back the keys to the laboratory and he wasn’t about to drop them. “Thank you.”

Whistling an old Madonna song, he entered the kitchen, full of swagger. 

“Good morning, fellers,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day outside, so let’s make it a good one in here and get on with some cooking. Jacques, fetch me a couple of ducks, if you please.”

“Damn, Porthos,” said Aramis, hurrying over to speak to him. “I shouldn’t have said what I did about Athos getting the sack.”

“I know; I know. He’s still working here,” said Porthos, reassuring his friend with a pat on the shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” said Aramis, huffing with displeasure. “I honestly thought more of Treville.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” said Porthos.

“Second, third, fourth,” said Aramis. “I suppose you get as many as you like when you’re sleeping with the boss.”

“What?” Porthos was certain he must have misheard. 

“It’s true,” said d’Artagnan, eager to tell all. “I was already here this morning when Athos came in, so I followed him up to Treville’s office to have a nose about and see if I could find out what was going to happen. I was expecting to hear a full on argument, but instead it was really quiet, just some hushed voices. It seemed a bit weird so I peered round the door and—I swear to god I am not kidding you—Treville was hugging him really close, rubbing his back and sort of soothing him. Then he kissed him—”

“I don’t want to hear any more of this,” interrupted Porthos. A knot had formed in his stomach. “It’s none of our business what they get up to in private.”

“Isn’t it though? said Aramis. “You’ve been doing an outstanding job for years without any recognition, whereas Athos has been here barely five minutes and has already been praised to the heavens. Now he’s fucked up royally and he still gets away with murder. Let’s face it, you carried Bonnaire the whole time he was in charge and were screwed over when he left just because Treville’s got the hots for his new toy.” Aramis slammed pots down the bench. “I’m seriously pissed off.”

“Me too,” agreed d’Artagnan.

Porthos didn’t entirely disagree with this summary, but he kept his head down and carried on butchering the ducks. At last he had the opportunity to work on his own food and he couldn’t give a shit about about who was sleeping with whom. “Can we please get on with the mise en place for today,” he said. “I’m fine, guys. Just leave me alone for a bit.” He needed to cook. It was the only thing that mattered.

 

—


	5. Chapter 5

The new duck main proved to be so popular that it was added to La Garnison’s menu, and whenever Athos received compliments on it he always credited his sous chef as the creator of the dish. 

This should have made Porthos happy, but instead he felt permanently out of sorts. Something inside was bothering him, keeping him awake night after night until he was turning up at work in a zombie like state of exhaustion.

“I hate seeing you so miserable,” said Aramis, an arm looped around his shoulder. “What would help?”

“I dunno.” Porthos attempted a smile. He honestly didn’t ask for much out of life. He had no desire to be rich and famous. All he wanted was to cook his own food and have the customers enjoy it. So why the fuck wasn’t that bastard Athos giving him another chance to prove what he could do? “A hitman?” he suggested wryly.

Aramis chuckled. “I have a few connections here and there, but none with the lowlife of France. Is there such a thing as a Parisian gangster?”

“There is and that’s all I’m saying on the subject.” Porthos was still mates with a bloke he’d teamed up with at one of the children’s homes, who was now leading a pretty shady existence. He wasn’t about to call Charon and order an assassination, but all the same it was fun to tease his friends.

“You can’t leave it at that,” exclaimed d’Artagnan.

“I can and I will,” said Porthos, folding his arms. “Now get on with your work.”

The amusement was fleeting and with a sigh of disillusionment, he returned to his saucepan, catching the roux seconds before it burned.

“Cheer up, Porthos,” said Aramis, looking more concerned than ever. “Meet me tomorrow evening for a drink,” he suggested. “We can have a good old gossip and vent our frustrations out on the pool table.”

“You sure you want to give up your precious night off?” asked Porthos. 

La Garnison was closed just one day a week. There were very few opportunities for chefs to socialise and there was nothing in the world that Aramis loved more than a date with a pretty woman.

“A girlfriend cancelled on me,” said Aramis. “And I can’t think of a better replacement for her than my best friend.”

“Then you’re on, mate,” said Porthos, slapping him on the back. “Thanks.”

“I approve of the cheer up Porthos plan,” said d’Artagnan. “From now on, February 27th will be known as Du Vallon’s Day.”

*

After such a brutal few weeks, Porthos was totally shattered. He felt wrecked, emotionally as well as physically, and wondered how much longer he’d be able to keep going. A night out had seemed like a good idea when Aramis suggested it, but all he wanted to do right now was fall into bed and sleep away his frustration. Unfortunately, sleep was still eluding him and hanging out with a friend had to be a better option than tossing and turning for hours on end.

He’d arranged to meet Aramis at their usual rendezvous. The place was too down at heel to be a tourist trap, even at the height of the season, and its gloomy interior suited Porthos particularly well at the moment.

On entering, he immediately caught sight of his friend at the bar and raised a hand in greeting. “Where are we sitting?” he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the dull roar of conversation and background music.

With a wide but slightly sheepish grin, Aramis gestured towards their usual table by the window which was currently occupied by the pretty barmaid from here, plus another young woman who looked much less sure of herself. Hurrying over, Aramis added a fresh bottle of wine to the half drunk one and then squeezed in next to Adele. “Sit, Porthos,” he instructed. “You’ll grow roots if you stand there much longer. This is Alice, by the way. She and Adele were free tonight so I thought it would be fun to make up a foursome.”

Struck dumb, Porthos did as he was told, topping up three glasses and then filling his own to the brim. For sanity’s sake, he needed to catch up quickly.

“I’m sorry if this came as a shock,” said Alice, leaning in close to speak to him in a low and rather musical voice. “I had no idea it was going to be a surprise for you.”

She was a complete contrast to Adele, who was dressed like a temptress with a never ending giggle. 

Porthos felt bad. It wasn’t Alice’s fault that he’d not been told about the blind date. “It’s great to meet you,” he said. “I have to admit I wasn’t expecting it. I’m always so busy at work that I don’t have much time for socialising. I’m pretty rusty.”

“You’re doing fine,” Alice reassured him. “It must be fun working as a chef.”

“Fun, fulfilling, frustrating.” Porthos grinned. “All the F’s plus a few of the cruder ones. But, to be honest, I absolutely love it. When I’m not in the kitchen I feel lost, which is why I spend so much time there. Anyway, enough about me; what do you do for a living?”

“You probably don’t want to know,” said Alice, brushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear.

From her demure nature Porthos guessed she’d be a librarian or a school teacher. Maybe a legal secretary. “Tell me,” he said, swallowing his glass of wine and then regretting it as soon as it hit his empty stomach.

“I’m a mortician,” replied Alice. 

Porthos reeled a little from the news. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she said with a nod.

“How the hell did you get into that?” asked Porthos in astonishment.

“It was something I always wanted to do,” she said. “Mine is a weird vocation, I grant you. Not much opportunity to meet people.”

“Not living ones anyway,” chuckled Porthos.

“Only gravediggers,” smiled Alice. “And that’s no good because I have a phobia of dirty fingernails.”

“I reckon you’re having me on,” said Porthos. “Pulling my leg, good and proper.”

Alice shook her head. “No. I actually do prepare dead bodies for burial and, like you, I love what I do. I suppose that makes me a freak.”

“Actually, it makes you a lot more interesting than most people I’ve- Ouch!” Porthos felt a sudden jarring sensation in his side and looked up to see who had the sharp elbows.

Aramis was grinning at him like a loon. “I’m starving. Let’s queue jump and beat the waitress,” he said with the air of a man who had managed to get something so spectacularly right that he needed to discuss it as soon as possible. “Will a couple of tapas platters suit everyone?”

The girls nodded and Porthos jumped at the chance for some one on one time with Aramis. He too had several things he needed to say. “Sounds like a plan,” he replied and they both made their way through the crowd. 

“Well,” said Aramis. “Do I, or do I not deserve a giant pat on the back? You two are getting on famously.”

“She’s great,” agreed Porthos. “There’s only one problem.”

“What’s that?” Aramis frowned, racking his brains to come up with a possible answer.

“She’s the wrong gender, you pillock,” said Porthos. “I’m gay.”

Aramis’ jaw dropped. “But you never said. And you don’t seem the slightest bit-“ He paused, searching for the right word.

“Camp?” supplied Porthos helpfully. To be honest, he was quite enjoying seeing his best mate squirm. “We’re not all stereotypically effeminate, you know. Queer comes in all shapes and sizes.”

“I know that, you prat,” said Aramis, cuffing him on the shoulder. “But why in heaven’s name didn’t you tell me before?”

“I don’t go on dates so it never crossed my mind.” Porthos looked downcast. “Although I wish I _had_ said something now. Alice is really nice and I hate stringing her along.”

“You’re not even _slightly_ attracted to her?” asked Aramis hopefully.

This time it was Porthos doing the thumping. “Mate, she’s curvy and soft and she definitely lacks a dick, so the answer to your unspoken question is no, I’m not going to sleep with her to get you out of a fix.”

“Me? Come up with something so crass? How could you?” said Aramis, full of mock indignation. Then he ruined it with a cheeky smile. “You order the food and I’ll go and explain my mistake to Alice. It’s still a rare night out so let’s make the most of it.”

“Agreed,” said Porthos. “But if you don’t mind, I’d rather deal with the explanations.” He grinned. “There’s nothing I like more than showing you up to be a prize idiot.”

Leaving Aramis at the bar, he returned to the table to find Alice conveniently on her own. “I thought women always went to the toilet in pairs,” he said as he sat back down.

“We do,” said Alice. “Adele spotted an old boyfriend and she’s gone over to say hello. Will Aramis mind, do you think?”

“I doubt it.” Porthos grinned. “He could probably hunt down at least a dozen exes in here if he went looking.” He steeled himself to tell Alice the truth whilst they were still alone. “Look, I’ve got something to tell you. I’d never have come out tonight if I’d known this was a date.” He took a fortifying swig of red wine. “Because the thing is I’m gay.”

“Oh,” said Alice and her face fell. “Then that was rather unkind of Aramis.”

Porthos shook his head vehemently. “No, not at all. You see he didn’t know until just now.”

“I thought you two were best friends?” Alice looked confused.

“We are,” said Porthos emphatically. “But we haven’t known each other long. We clicked as soon as we started working together at the restaurant.”

Alice raised her eyebrows. “So does that mean you secretly fancy him?” 

Porthos was taken aback by this suggestion. “Err no.” He considered the idea for a second. Aramis was a really good looking bloke, but he didn’t do anything for him in that way. To be honest, not many guys did. “I’m pretty much celibate,” he admitted, voicing it for the first time. “I’ve never had a long term relationship. I suppose food is my life.” He laughed. “That sounds really sad. I’m going to end up lonely and fat.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Alice. “Someone’s sure to grab your attention one day. Probably when you’re least expecting it.”

“Can’t see it happening,” said Porthos dubiously as he watched Aramis make his way back to their table, pausing along the way to chat to friends. “Here comes the troublemaker. Thanks for being so great about this, Alice. I’d really like it if we could hang out together again.”

“I’d like that too,”said Alice, adding her number to Porthos’ phone. “And when you eventually find a boyfriend you can call me to bitch about him.” She let loose a sneaky grin. “Now I think it’s high time we had a laugh at a certain person’s expense.”

Porthos returned the smile and added a wink. He had a pretty good idea of what she had in mind. “I really am sorry,” he said on cue.

“You bastard,” she cried. “How could you mess me around like that?” She then turned on Aramis who stopped in his tracks, rooted to the floorboards, his eyes wide with panic. “I suppose you think it’s hilarious to hook me up with your gay friend?”

“I had no idea,” stammered Aramis. Lost for any further words, his mouth flapped helplessly.

Porthos and Alice burst out laughing at the sight, and as the light slowly dawned, Aramis heaved a sigh of relief. “You pair of shits, having me on like that. I nearly had a heart attack.”

“Sorry, mate,”said Porthos, filling up all their glasses. “I guess this has been a rubbish date night for all three of us.”

“You two I understand, but why me?” asked Aramis, looking confused.

Porthos pointed at a couple who were locked together in a soft porn make out session. “Adele’s over there getting reacquainted with an old flame.”

“Oh well. You win some; you lose some.” Unperturbed, Aramis shrugged and raised a glass in their direction. “Good luck to them. By the look of it, there’s more than a few embers still burning.”

From then onwards, the evening turned out to be fantastic fun, the three of them recounting tall tales from their past, embellishments getting wilder and wilder as the night wore on and then eventually wore out. Waving Alice off in a taxi to the other side of the city, Porthos and Aramis shared a cab home to the 11th arrondissement.

“Thanks, bruv,” said Porthos gruffly. Emotional from tiredness, he choked up, unable to express how much this friendship meant to him. “Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“No worries, mon ami,” replied Aramis as the taxi pulled up outside his apartment building. “I understand and I’ll always be there for you.” Handing over his share of the fare, he hugged Porthos and exited the car.

“Good night out?” asked the driver, once Porthos had given him his home address.

“Very good.” Porthos nodded. “Bloody great as a matter of fact.” He was beginning to feel like his old self again. It may have been the wine making him brave, but right now he was ready to take on Chef Athos de la Fère and show him exactly what he was made of.

 

—


	6. Chapter 6

Hurry hurry hurry, was the mantra for the day. Inundated with orders, the kitchen performed like a well oiled machine, all the component parts in perfect working order.

“How was date night?” asked d’Artagnan as they took a much needed breather at the end of service.

“Different.” Porthos pulled a face. So his best mate had bothered to tell their apprentice of his plans in advance. Shame he hadn’t keep him in the loop as well.

“It was great,” said Aramis. “And had I known all the facts it may have gone even better.”

“What d’you mean?”asked d’Artagnan.

Aramis raised both eyebrows at Porthos who nodded without hesitation. His sex life wasn’t a secret; it was simply non existent.

“I know several eligible young bachelors who’d have jumped at the chance to go on a date with a handsome chef, only it never dawned on me to ask them along.” Aramis tugged his hair free of its ponytail and then re-tied it more neatly.

“I thought you-“ D’Artagnan’s sentence came to a premature end as the penny dropped. “Oh,” he said, “You don't seem very gay, Porthos.”

Porthos sighed. “I’ll wear my rainbow crop top tomorrow, if that helps.”

D’Artagnan gave this some consideration. “I can’t imagine you in one of those.”

“That’s ‘cause I don’t own one,” growled Porthos. “Now get on with cleaning your station. Break’s over.”

The apprentice chef began to wipe down the work surfaces, but was not yet ready to stop talking. “Actually, Constance was certain you were gay, but I told her she was being an idiot. Let’s keep it quiet or she'll be smug for months.”

Aramis patted him on the back. “I’ll be sure to mention it as soon as I see her.”

“No need to be mean just because your cheer up surprise was a disaster,” smirked d’Artagnan. “Let’s hope mine’s more successful.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve hired a hitman over the internet,” said Porthos. “Now we’ll get some angsty, grudge ridden 4chaner turn up here, telling us how much he hates his parents.”

“Next best thing,” sniggered d’Artagnan as he finished his cleaning. “Wait and see.”

Porthos would have questioned him further on the subject but there simply wasn’t time. Many of the new classic recipes were complex and so prep was taking a lot longer than it used to back in the good old days. He sighed out loud as he roasted bones to make stock and made a chiffonade of herbs.

“Are we ready, gentlemen?” asked Athos three hours later as he leaned against the pass, whites on and arms folded. 

“As we’ll ever be,” replied Aramis.

“Yes, Chef, is a perfectly adequate answer, M d’Herblay.” 

“Yes, Chef.” Aramis grinned. “Almost ready, Chef.”

Having known Athos de la Fère for a while now, Porthos was becoming increasingly aware that the man was, by nature, a melancholic soul, but today he seemed more world weary than ever. During endless bouts of insomnia, Porthos had searched through foodie gossip sites to see if he could discover why Athos had quit Cardinal so suddenly, but there were no rumours in circulation. Only a few scant facts which were pretty uninformative and very dull. Apparently the bloke had left by mutual agreement to work at La Garnison and been replaced by Rochefort, a chef highly rated in Barcelona where he had worked at a number of top restaurants.

“Guys, hurry up and get mise en place finished,” said Porthos, checking the time on the wall clock. “We haven’t got long until the orders start rolling in.”

For this he received a small yet appreciative smile from Athos. His words may have seemed like a show of support but they was mostly for his own benefit. He cooked far better in a relaxed atmosphere.

With another perfect service notched up and not a single assassination attempt happening to upset the customers, Porthos was a chilled out man when he left the restaurant — a far cry from happy, but a big improvement on venomously angry.

“Our head chef’s still alive and kicking,” was his parting shot to d’Artagnan. “You’ll have to try harder tomorrow.”

“He should keep an eye out for booby traps,” came the cryptic reply as d’Artagnan headed in the direction of Constance’s little Renault.

*

That night, Porthos slept well for the first time in ages and arrived at work feeling restored and ready to face another ‘frantic’ Friday, notoriously the busiest day at La Garnison. With Athos nowhere to be found, he took over the role of head chef, quite happy to be bossing everyone around and keeping noses firmly to the grindstone. 

He was considering whether it would be worth trying to slip a cheeky dish onto the specials board when the kitchen was hit by a blast that was as loud as any bomb.

“What the fuck is this?” yelled Treville, brandishing a half empty bottle of brandy in one hand. He then thrust a gift label in each of their faces in turn. “And what is _this_ supposed to mean?” He read out loud the words on the card and as he did so he glared at every member of staff. “To Chef. Thanks for all the encouragement.”

Porthos blinked, struggling to make sense of things.

“So which one of you sent this to Athos?” The glare was not getting any less potent. “Or was it a joint effort?”

D’Artagnan stepped forward. “It was me, M Treville.”

“Why, on god's green earth, would you do such a thing?” asked Treville, pacing the floor. “The man’s practically an alcoholic.”

“I didn’t know that,” said d’Artagnan, clearly unnerved by this information.

“Jesus Christ, lad, show a bit of common sense. You saw him come to work drunk.” Treville sat down at the bench, palms pressed together, eyes closed. “You’re not seriously going to try and convince me that the brandy was a gesture of friendship?”

“No, sir,” replied d’Artagnan. “I was annoyed because he was being given more credit than he deserved. Getting an easy ride.”

“Aimed at me, I suppose.” Treville pinched his brow. “And so you decided to pay Athos back for my failings?” 

“I never meant to cause harm,” said d’Artagnan. “It was just a reminder that he wasn’t the only one in the kitchen.”

“Damn.” Treville wilted. “I never took any of your feelings into consideration. Especially yours, Porthos. What a bloody mess I’ve made of things.”

“I don’t understand, M Treville,” said Porthos.

“Athos has been my friend for a long time,” said Treville. “He was having problems at Cardinal—that damn place was sucking the life out of him—and so when Bonnaire left, I grabbed the opportunity to bring him here and get him out of harm’s way.”

“What sort of problems?” asked Aramis.

“Complicated ones,” snapped Treville, anger returning as he dumped the bottle of brandy on the bench. “Carry on with service as best you can until he shows up. _If_ he shows up.” 

Heads down, the chefs got on with their work, the only sounds to be heard the scrape of metal on metal and the rhythmic chopping of knives. Someone had to shatter the silence before it deafened them.

“Seems your booby trap backfired, d’Artagnan,” said Aramis as he poured creme anglaise and whipped cream into an ice cream maker. “Pretty spectacularly as it happens.”

“How was I supposed to know?” asked d’Artagnan plaintively, his expression growing ever more downcast. “Will Treville sack me, d’you think?”

“Not right now,” growled Porthos. “I reckon he’s way too busy trying to hunt down his missing head chef.”

He felt rotten. He may not have been the one responsible, but he hadn’t put a stop to it when he knew something was going on. In fact he’d actively encouraged d’Artagnan to try harder. What had he been thinking?

“Athos will show up soon,” Aramis reassured them. “He’s fine. He drank half the brandy and stopped.”

“Or maybe he drank half the brandy and _ran_ ,” countered Porthos. “If he _is_ an alkie then the chances are he ended up at a bar.”

He’d known a number of heavy boozers in the past. They’d have all the best intentions, but without support the call to drink was too strong. At least Athos had Treville to lean on.

*

The weekend passed by slowly, horribly, with every member of the kitchen team jerking their heads towards the door each time there was the sound of footsteps. Treville was rarely to be seen and this was the one thing keeping hopes alive until end of service on Sunday when the boss appeared in the staff room just as Porthos was getting ready to go home.

“Is Athos okay?” he asked.

The shake of the head was almost imperceptible, but Porthos picked up on it and his heart sank.

“I can’t find him,” said Treville, exhausted and defeated. “He’s not answering his phone. If he’s at home then he won’t come to the door.” He sank into a chair. “I’ve been to every bloody bar. I’ve even been up the Eiffel Tower.” He paused. “In case—” 

The sentence didn’t need finishing.

Porthos felt sick. Did the guy really think Athos’ problems had pushed him that close to the edge?

“Should I call the police and explain the situation?” asked Treville, looking to Porthos for advice. “I Imagine they could gain access to his apartment if needed.”

“You don’t have a key?” asked Porthos, faintly surprised by this information.

“Why would I?” asked Treville. “Do you have keys to all your friends’ homes?”

“No,” muttered Porthos. “I suppose not.”

“Don’t tell me you lot think I’m sleeping with him?” Treville laughed mirthlessly. “Well I bloody well wish I was If it meant he’d be safe right now.” He pushed himself to his feet, that volatile temper making itself known once again. “Go home, Porthos,” he barked. “Make the most of your day off tomorrow. You’ll be a busy man from now on.”

“Where does Athos live?” asked Porthos, standing his ground with arms folded. He could match Treville for stubbornness when necessary. “You never know. I might be able to annoy him enough to let me in.”

“It’s a possibility.” The load lightening just a little, Treville reeled off an address in Rue Ferou, not far from Porthos’ own neck of the woods. “He’s most likely off on a bender, but I suppose there’s no harm in you giving it a go.”

“It’s on my way home,” said Porthos. “I’ll drop by tonight.”

“I’d appreciate that,” said Treville.

“Is he really that low?” asked Porthos, stopping at the door to look back at the boss.

“I pray not,” replied Treville who didn’t much seem like the praying type.

 

—


	7. Chapter 7

Porthos had walked past Rue Ferou many times, but had never been down the road itself. It turned out to be a narrow and rather nondescript backstreet, containing several unimpressive apartment buildings and not much else. Athos’ home was the most dilapidated, far from the sort of place one would expect to find a Michelin rated chef.

He buzzed several times, scrutinising each window for signs of life as he did so and eventually hit a stroke of luck when an old man opened the door to the main entrance and without a word held it open.

“Cheers, mate,” said Porthos, almost tripping over a stack of bikes in his haste to get inside.

Athos lived in flat number four, up a dimly lit staircase which smelt strongly from decades of ingrained dirt and reminded Porthos all too much of his first ever home. Sense of foreboding growing, he hammered relentlessly on the door with his fists.

“Open up, you lazy sod,” he yelled. Goading was always a good tactic. “Don’t expect me to run the kitchen for you while you lie around getting pissed.”

All was silent and the door remained steadfastly closed.

“Fuck,” said Porthos, leaning against the wall and tracing some faded graffiti with his finger. “Where have you gone, Athos?”

He didn’t know the man well enough to have any idea where he’d hide when he was miserable, but he did know the kind of places he himself would choose. Somewhere quiet when the world became too noisy and oppressive.

A woman peered out of the doorway opposite. “You wake my baby,” she said in a heavily accented voice. “Man not here. You go away now.”

“Sorry, love,” said Porthos. “Don’t panic. I’m leaving.”

With a burgeoning sense of dread, Porthos escaped the apartment building and trudged wearily home, texting Treville as he walked.

_no luck. will try again tomorrow._

Was it guilt that was making him so anxious? Unlikely, seeing as none of this was their fault. D'Artagnan's ‘gift’ was pretty insignificant and if Treville had kept them better informed then the kid would never have done such an unintentionally cruel thing. The truth was that Porthos didn’t even like Athos much. The man was stilted and unbending, without an ounce of human compassion. Though there had been moments, few and far between, when he had seemed lonely rather than cold, and, on occasion he had even been known to smile, albeit in a rather faded way.

“Bloody hell, Treville,” muttered Porthos as he unlocked the door to his flat. The boss should never have taken on such a liability without telling his staff to tread carefully.

He spent a sleepless night racking his brains to think of places to hunt, and by morning had mentally prepared an itinerary for the day.

Setting off before rush hour, he tried Athos’ apartment once more to no avail and so, with little hope of success, he then embarked on a rather pointless rescue mission. At least at this time of day the bars would all be closed, limiting the number of places to look. Unless of course the man had crashed unnoticed in the toilets somewhere. 

Putting himself in a drunkard’s shoes, he began a tour of sheltered locations, anywhere a homeless person might rest their head for the night. Only Athos wasn’t actually a vagrant, nor was he penniless. “Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself. This was an impossible task and a total waste of his day off.

After several fruitless hours of hunting for needles in haystacks, Porthos returned to plan A and picked the places that were his own sanctuary when life was rough.

His favourite haunt was a secondhand bookshop complete with tiny café, deserted now that the early morning trade had scurried off to work. This was a temple of solitude where he could hide away amongst the rows of shelves and read to his heart's content. Porthos imagined that Athos too might enjoy it, sipping espresso and hunting through ancient cookery books, seeking inspiration from his classical forebears. Unfortunately, if he ever did such a thing, he was not in evidence here today, and after ordering a takeaway coffee, Porthos despondently took to the streets once more.

Travelling northwards, popping his head into other shops and watering holes along the way, he entered the biggest and wildest of the Parisian parks, breathing in the scent of fallen leaves as he headed into a deep thicket of trees, branches tangling overhead, angular and bony without their covering of green. There were benches hidden within this oasis where he would often eat a sandwich and contemplate the passage of his life. Today, however, it was deserted and after exploring every square metre of parkland, Porthos came to the conclusion that unsurprisingly Athos was not following the same pathway.

Having visited some of the more obscure museums and galleries, Porthos gave in to his aching feet and headed home to the 11th district, detouring instinctively into the last place one would expect to find a drunk —- at least not at this stage of his existence.

The cemetery was a vast space, visited by many thousands during the weekends and at the height of the tourist season, but a sanctuary of stillness at all other times. Its cobbled avenues were bounded by marbles tombs. Presidents, composers and rock stars lay side by side, at peace with the world. Famous writers lined the way and there in the distance, Porthos spotted one solitary chef ambling down the central aisle of the graveyard—the Via Dolorosa.

He increased his speed, long legs covering the ground at a fast pace, until in no time at all he had caught up with his prey.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, clapping a hand firmly onto Athos’ shoulders. “You been sick or something? You missed a couple of shifts.”

Athos reeled slightly under the weight of Porthos’ arm. Fragile was the most apt description of him right now.

“I did,” he said, not quite able to look Porthos in the eye. “Something important cropped up.”

Porthos didn’t believe in pussyfooting around. The lie was obvious. “We all thought you were drunk off your face.”

Embarrassed, Athos pulled away from him and sank down onto one of the grave surrounds, legs stretched out in front of him. “I was,” he admitted, picking aimlessly through coloured marble chippings. “Horribly so, in fact.”

“Not your fault. We shouldn’t have given you the brandy,” said Porthos, sitting beside him and leaning back against the marble wall of the tomb.

“No, perhaps not.” Athos glanced sideways. “But I find it hard to believe that you had anything to do with it.”

“Why?” asked Porthos intrigued.

Athos managed a smile. “You bluster and you grumble and you sulk,” he said. “You act like an angry bull most of the time, but without exception you always have everyone’s backs.” He paused. “Even mine.”

“Nah,” said Porthos and winked. “Look in the mirror and there I’ll be, waiting to stab you with a vegetable knife at the first opportunity.”

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out,” said Athos. “You should text Treville and tell him you’ve found me.”

“Who says I was looking for you?” Porthos took his phone out of his pocket then typed a short message and pressed send. A grateful reply came back almost instantly. “You know, if you ever need to talk I’m a pretty good listener.”

“Thank you.” Athos reddened one shade deeper with embarrassment. “But I hope to be able to hold it together a little better from now on.”

“I learned a long time ago that keeping pain locked away only makes things worse.”

“Perhaps you should give me the number of your psychologist?” said Athos, a fresh smile teasing at the edges of his mouth.

“Friends make the best therapists,” said Porthos.

“You’ll find, when you become head chef, that there’s little time for relationships of any description.”

“You have Treville,” said Porthos.

“He and I were in the army together,” said Athos, as if that explained everything. “He’s good at offering practical support.”

“So when it all gets too much and you’re craving a drink then he chains you to a bed until you’re over it?”

Athos laughed. “You make him sound like a pervert and I can promise you he’s not.” He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to Porthos who declined with a shake of the head.

“Filthy habit,” he said and then relented and took one.

Athos lit them both up. “I buy them when I’m drunk. It seems a waste not to finish the packet.”

“So, other than the brandy, what set you off?” asked Porthos, coughing up acrid smoke. Now seemed as good a time as any to be told to fuck off with that customary icy politeness. Instead, Athos surprised him with an answer.

“My younger brother died almost two years ago. I’ve been thinking about him a lot recently.”

“Were you close?” asked Porthos who had no experience of family ties.

“No. Not in the slightest,” said Athos. “Things may have turned out differently had I tried harder to get to know him.” He abruptly changed the subject. “I hate this time of year. It seems as if the world will never come back to life.”

“But it will,” said Porthos, grinding his half smoked Gauloise into the cobblestones. “The world turns and we have to keep up with whatever shit it dishes out next.”

“Or perhaps in your case, whichever shit takes over as head chef and steals your job out from under you?” There was genuine amusement in Athos’ voice.

“Yeah, that too,” growled Porthos. “You cheeky fucker.” He shivered. “D’you want to grab a cappuccino? My arse is frozen from this bastard marble.”

*

Was this the beginning of a friendship, wondered Porthos as he hung on tightly to the overhead strap, the driver putting his foot down on the roundabout and turning a simple bus journey into a rollercoaster ride.

He and Athos had spent over an hour together in the café, chatting about food, movies, theatre. Pretty much everything _not_ of a personal nature, but there was still bonding going on. Porthos could feel it: an ease of being together that was rare in such a new acquaintance.

“My stop,” said Athos, shuffling up the aisle to alight from the bus.

“Mine too,” said Porthos, joining him on the pavement. “Aramis also lives round here. Pretty weird that we’re all so close.”

“I suppose so,” said Athos, sounding unconvinced.

“Do you want to come back to mine for something to eat?” suggested Porthos.

“Showing off your cooking skills can wait until tomorrow,” replied Athos curtly.

Porthos wasn’t certain whether this remark was meant as a joke, but even so it was cutting. “Forget it,” he said. “I just thought you’d be hungry after a two day bender.”

“Thank you,” said Athos, stopping at the corner of Rue Ferou. “But I don’t need anyone watching over me. I’m perfectly fine as I am.”

 

—


	8. Chapter 8

Porthos arrived at work, brushing the rain off his hair and wondering what fresh level of hell would lie in store for them today. He had texted both d’Artagnan and Aramis last night to tell them that Athos was okay and had been hoping that Aramis would ring back for a chat, but the phone had remained annoyingly silent. His best friend had been very preoccupied recently. 

“Another day, another dollar,” he muttered to himself, putting on his whites. 

Arriving in the kitchen, he was just in time to hear a heartfelt apology from d’Artagnan. It was aimed at their head chef, who seemed decidedly uncomfortable being the target of such an emotional outpouring.

“I am so sorry, Chef. It was just a thoughtless prank. I never meant to cause any trouble. I feel terrible.”

“No need,” said Athos, leaning back against the counter and addressing the apprentice with a surprising amount of compassion. More than he had ever shown before. “Who has time for grudges? All is forgotten. How long have you been working here at La Garnison?”

“Six months,” replied d’Artagnan. 

“And how much training did you get under Bonnaire?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “None really. He was a lazy sod, to be honest.”

“Have you attended classes?”

“No,” said d’Artagnan, clearly worried at the direction this conversation was heading. “But more than anything I want to be a chef. I want to learn to cook. Please give me another chance.”

“Stop panicking.” Athos briefly rested his arm across the young man’s shoulders. “With cooking, as is the case with most things in life, good technique is essential. You must get the basics right before you can hope to move on. Now show me how you make an omelette.”

“Yes, Chef,” replied d’Artagnan, scurrying off to the food storage area to collect eggs.

So much for new friendships, thought Porthos. “Who’s going to do mise en place?” he asked, his brows knitted into a deep frown.

“D’Artagnan can make up time in his break,” said Athos, far too reasonable for Porthos’ liking. “And I’ll be happy to help out when needed.”

“The maestro gutting fish,” laughed Aramis. “That’s a new one at La Garnison.”

“I like to keep my hand in,” replied Athos, taking one of his knives from its binding and dicing carrots into a fine brunoise. “To begin with, I cooked all the time at Cardinal, but I’m ashamed to say I fell into bad habits.” He glanced sideways at Porthos. ”Things will be different here from now on.”

*

Now Porthos may have been a stubborn man, but he was no fool. In many ways it was good to have the head chef on hand, teaching d’Artagnan, or helping out with preparation. He always made damn sure he lingered close by during lesson times, absorbing as much knowledge as possible, albeit second hand. 

What was harder to swallow was the neverending stream of adulation that now emanated from the work benches at La Garnison. After an unimpressive start, six months in Athos had turned out to be a man with a mystical ability to enthrall his staff. 

Even Aramis had fallen under the spell. “He can work wonders with the simplest of flavours,” said the chef patissier, full of admiration.

“Yeah right,” replied Porthos. “He’s a bloody miracle.” Shame the head chef was so busy teaching his new disciple that he hadn’t provided any recipes for today’s board.

“What are the specials, Chef?” he asked, his teeth only slightly gritted. 

“I don’t know.” Athos shrugged, a smile slowly developing. “I’m sure you can come up with something.”

Porthos blinked. “Me?”

“Will that be a problem?” asked Athos.

“No, Chef.” Definitely not a problem.

“Good.” 

Conversation over, Athos turned his attention back to d’Artagnan who was in a world of hurt with his hollandaise.

“It’s split again,” he griped. “I have no idea what I’m doing wrong.”

“Patience is the key,” explained Athos. “You need a steady hand, a clear head and, most importantly, you need to be prepared to give it as much time as it requires.”

“He’s a good teacher,” said Aramis.

“He’s okay,” replied Porthos, unwilling to commit any further.

But the truth was that those elegant phrases, overheard during the day, had a habit of worming their way into his psyche. They were so alluring at times that they became a siren call, dragging him from his bed and into his own galley kitchen where he would make sauces and soufflés into the small hours. His love affair was growing more passionate with every passing day.

*

At long last the weather had turned and Paris was finally proving how beautiful she could be in springtime, the trees, that stretched along every avenue, loaded with a pink and white palette of blossom.

That sudden warmth brought with it a sense of lightness so infectious that even Jean Treville caught a dose of happiness. He arrived in the kitchen, one sleepy Wednesday afternoon, positively beaming with joy. 

“Listen to this, gentlemen,” he said, ushering them close and then reading aloud from the newspaper. “Is Cardinal finally coming to the end of its supremacy? Under Chef Rochefort, the food has become cloying, with far too much raw garlic and olive oil in every dish, and the entire menu is a definite step downwards. Their previous head chef, Athos de la Fère, is now in charge at La Garnison — a bijou restaurant located at the heart of the bohemian 11th, which is proving daily that great things can come in small packages.”

“Is that crazy Louis doing the reviewing?” asked Porthos. The overblown style sounded like him, but the content was totally wrong. “I thought he always gave Cardinal a double thumbs up?”

“He does,” said Treville, giddy to the point of smugness. “But not this time. On the contrary, he’s given us a free nod at their expense.” His smile was a rare delight. ”I couldn’t be happier. Thank you all for working so hard to make this place a success.”

“Thank _you_ , M Treville,” said d’Artagnan fervently. “We couldn’t do it without your support.”

Porthos attempted to join in with the back slapping, but it was a struggle. La Garnison may have been moving upwards—Aramis and d’Artagnan getting some well deserved praise—but he himself had reached a plateau of mediocrity. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t blame Athos who was still encouraging him to present new dishes as often as possible. Recognising this opportunity, he worked harder and harder, spending every night thinking up avant garde specials that might impress the customers with their unique flavours, but nothing ever hit its mark. He would generally get a few orders for his food and no dish was ever sent back, but neither was there any positive feedback. He was in a world of hurt and once again resentment started to build.

Tonight became the straw that broke the camel’s back. Porthos had been forced to look on from the sidelines, nodding and smiling, as d’Artagnan was introduced to a famous acting couple who had devoured the chicken fricassée he was responsible for cooking and had asked to compliment the chef in person.

“Fuck‘s sake,” he muttered when the day was finally over, taking a long time to clear away his station as, one by one, the kitchen staff departed for their homes.

To add to his woes, this was his worst service ever at La Garnison. He’d spent the entire evening cooking items from both menu and specials board without receiving one single order for his cleverly designed seafood dish. Somehow, in some cunning and manipulative way, Athos de la Fère was sabotaging him in favour of his protégé d'Artagnan. There was no other explanation.

“Goodnight, Porthos,” said Aramis, a hand raised in farewell.

“See you tomorrow, mate,” said Porthos, barely looking up, not wanting Aramis to see the turmoil that was enveloping him.

“Are you okay, mon ami?” asked his friend, pausing on his way out. He looked concerned. Perhaps he had reason to be so. 

“I’m fine,” Porthos assured him. “Just tired. Having a rest before the walk home.”

“If you’re certain,” said Aramis dubiously. “You do know that it was just a one off with d’Artagnan,” he added. “The boy cooked well tonight.”

“I know,” said Porthos. “And I’m pleased for him.”

“His skills aren’t a patch on yours,” said Aramis. “Unlike you, he packs no flavour punches.”

“Thanks,” said Porthos, grateful for the kind words, but not in the mood for conversation. “See you in the morning.”

Alone in the kitchen, he continued to potter about, biding his time. Where the hell was Athos, he wondered. Closeted inside the upstairs apartment, was the likely answer, cosying up to the boss and pushing his sous chef out of a job, inch by traitorous inch.

Pouring a coffee, he sat down at the bench, iPad in hand as he racked his brains for unusual new combinations of ingredients that would dazzle the regulars of La Garnison and set the Parisian gourmands on fire. There was however one major stumbling block in his way. His food was already _on_ the menu here, so why was no one ordering it? He had to find out the truth, and if it meant lying in wait all night then that’s exactly what he would do.

Just short of an hour later, Athos emerged from Treville’s attic hideaway, wielding the keys for the staff entrance.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, surprised when he caught sight of Porthos. “I thought everyone would have gone by now. Are you still busy? If so, you can do the locking up.” 

He threw the bunch of keys at Porthos who pointedly ignored them and they fell to the tiled floor with a clatter.

“I’ve got a question for you,” he said, fixing his eyes on Athos. “I didn’t get any orders for my main tonight. You happen to know why?”

Athos shrugged. “I have a pretty good idea.”

“I bet you bloody do,” snapped Porthos.

Athos smirked, just enough to add more fuel to the fire. “Would you like the truth, or would you prefer me to lie in order to massage your ego?”

This was grossly unfair because Porthos was far from egotistical. He was, in fact, the opposite of this: a grafter who’d worked his way up from nothing and had, up until a few months ago, let his food speak entirely for itself. “The truth,” he replied through clenched teeth.

“I take it you were trying to recreate a hybrid of moules mariniere and saltfish stew?”

Not daring to say a word, concerned that his anger might actually overwhelm him and cost him his belovéd job, Porthos simply nodded.

“Well,” said Athos. “I tasted your dish and you need to think a damn sight more about balance. White wine and garlic are the key to a good moules mariniere, but you lost both those elements amongst the allspice and the overload of scotch bonnets. You’re trying too hard to impress.”

“Jesus Christ.” Porthos gave in and let the anger flood out. The last thing he cared about was Athos de la Fère’s opinion of him. “I don’t give a flying fuck what you think of my cooking. You’re a has been with no eye for what’s current.”

Athos huffed with amusement. “Whilst you’re so much on trend that the people of Paris are clamouring to taste your-” He paused for a significant amount of time. “Creations.”

“My shit food, is what you mean,” said Porthos, arms wrapped defensively around himself. “Say what you think for once. Say something honest. Stop pissing me about.”

“That’s not what I meant at all,” replied Athos, calm and collected and so fucking condescending. “As always, you read far too much into my words.”

“What?” Porthos laughed derisively, resentment stacking on top of resentment. Athos was way too busy being mentor to his precious d’Artagnan to take a blind bit of notice what he was doing. “The three whole sentences you say to me during service? The truth is that you’re a washed up drunk and a useless head chef who doesn’t deserve to run the kitchen at McDonalds, let alone here.”

Now Porthos was a kind man who regretted these words the moment they came out of his mouth. An apology was already on his lips when he was hit full force by the reaction to his outburst — a reaction which was shocking to say the least. Fully expecting Athos to scuttle away, Porthos was unprepared for the solid punch which landed on his jaw and sent him stumbling back into the vegetable racks. Potatoes and carrots cascaded to the floor, making a break for freedom, and as bundles of celery went flying, so did Porthos, his temper fully unleashed and soaring to heady new heights. 

Nursing his bruised jaw, he regained his balance and then barrelled forwards, grappling with his opponent until they ended up locked together, fists swinging wildly with Porthos using his superior body weight to force Athos back onto the stainless steel counter. Christ, but it felt good, finally being able to vent all those months of frustration and as he looked down he saw a similar response lighting up soft green eyes below him. Something untoward then occurred. His physical response to the situation altered dramatically and in seconds he was hard, pulsing with a very different kind of energy.

Residual anger remained and he thrust hard, loving the involuntary jerk of the hips he received as an answer. There was neither room nor requirement for any more vicious words or flying fists. Seeking out Athos’ mouth, Porthos kissed him, brushing lips just for a second to test the waters and then slipping his tongue into a newly discovered heaven. The kiss was bruising and delicious. Athos tasted unexpectedly fresh, no hint of stale booze marring the moment, and Porthos kissed on and on, a hand slipping southwards to fumble at the fastenings of Athos’ Levi’s. Pausing before reaching his prize, Porthos began to second guess himself, but then Athos rumbled with disapproval and nipped at his mouth, urging him on as he reached for Porthos’ belt buckle.

Unfettered, they took the simplest, most direct route to pleasure, hands around cocks, mouths pressed together as they rubbed, touched, moaned into each other. Porthos took control, loving the feel of them squeezed intimately within the circle of his palms, wet and hot and jerking with pleasure. It had been so long. Too long, he realised now as the beginnings of orgasm raced through him from head to toe. Taking Athos in his right hand, he pulled himself off with his left, a roar of relief echoing around the kitchen as semen spattered across the man, his nemesis, laid out half naked beneath him.

With an anguished groan of need Athos took hold of himself and using Porthos’ come as makeshift lubricant, he worked himself off hard and fast, sperm jetting from him, white, thick and plentiful. 

It was a pretty sight and Porthos enjoyed every second of the show. “Fuck,” he muttered afterwards as he wiped himself clean. “We made one hell of a mess. Where did that come from?”

“If you don’t know now, I’d say there's no hope for you.”

Athos was smirking up at him, and Porthos realised, all of a sudden, that it was a sign of uncertainty rather than smugness. “Bastard,” he grinned, taking hold of Athos’ hands and cleaning them with a paper towel. “We have some tidying to do and, for once, you’re going to muck in.”

“Yes, Chef,” said Athos, that half smile lingering and softening his features. “Anything you say, Chef.”

They worked well together, Porthos washing the floor whilst Athos sterilised the counter and retrieved the escapee vegetables.

“That day in the cemetery,” said Porthos casually as he rinsed out the mop. “I thought we were getting on okay.”

Athos remained silent, but he nodded his head in agreement.

“So why did you totally ignore me afterwards?”

“I wasn’t aware of doing so,” said Athos and then he conceded some ground. “I was embarrassed, I suppose. Ashamed of myself for letting everyone down.”

“You didn’t,” said Porthos. “If anything, we let you down.”

“I wasn’t doing my job properly.” Athos leaned back against the cupboard. “I thought that if I taught d’Artagnan the basics it would be a way to make up for my failure.”

“But what about me?” asked Porthos.

“You’re a damn good chef. You don’t need my instruction.”

“Yeah, I do.” Porthos sighed. “Tell me honestly. Why does no one order my food?”

Athos studied him for a moment, then cocked his head to one side and smiled in that strange, lopsided way of his. “Are you ready for round two so soon? You really _are_ young.”

“Please,” begged Porthos. “I need to know.” The sex had been great and it was good to finally be on speaking terms with Athos—more than that, some would say—but cooking was his life and he had to find out where he was going wrong. “Before we- Well, you know.” He grinned sheepishly. “You were talking about balance.”

“Are you certain you want to have this conversation?”

“Damn straight, I am.” The unintentional choice of words made Porthos chuckle. “Or in my case, damn gay.”

Athos grinned. “Okay, fair enough. I can see that you’re a glutton for punishment, but please don’t take any of this the wrong way.”

“I won’t,” promised Porthos.

“You may think my food is classic to the point of being dull, but I continually adapt recipes to make them my own. However, I choose to do so with patience and with subtlety.”

“You’re saying I’m too heavy handed?” interrupted Porthos.

“Not exactly,” replied Athos. “Let me finish. You have a wonderful natural palate and you season to perfection, but you’re far too anxious to push the boundaries and, because of that, your dishes become confused.” He paused. “Shall I go on?”

“Please,” said Porthos, emptying the coffee jug into two cups and handing one to Athos. For too long he’d relied on his instincts which, under pressure, were now failing him badly.

“I was surprised to discover that your Caribbean mussels ate far better than they read on the menu,” continued Athos. “But there were still too many clashes. You need to focus on what you’re trying to achieve. If I were redesigning moules mariniere I would begin by thinking about flavour. Seafood goes beautifully with fennel and orange so I would introduce some aniseed by adding Pernod and perhaps a little citrus to the cooking liquor. I would make a chilli bread to toast, or char some fennel and reduce the liquor and add cream to make it a sauce. Tweak the recipe and taste constantly. Have a point of reference and go from there. That’s how I work.”

“Little by little, “ said Porthos. His food had gone down far better in the early days when he was a more considered cook. “I can do that.”

“Good.” Athos smiled at him. “That way lies greatness.”

“No more bull in a china shop,” said Porthos, rubbing his hands together with anticipation.

“You once offered me a friendly ear when I needed it. Likewise, I’m more than happy to mull over any recipe ideas with you,” added Athos. “A sounding board, if you will.”

Porthos had been half expecting an offer of a college course, training him in the basics of French cuisine, and had been dreading it. He wasn’t great at book learning, or homework and much preferred pottering around after hours in La Garnison. However some one to one mentoring with Athos was something he would be happy to accept. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “You don’t mind if I use this place as a test kitchen?”

“Think of it as your playground.” Athos huffed with genuine laughter. “I know I do.”

“Look, I really am sorry we got off to such a rotten start,” said Porthos, ashamed of himself as he recalled all the cruel comments that had been aimed at Athos. “I was bang out of order. Jealous, I suppose.”

“And as well as being a usurper I was also a useless head chef,” admitted Athos. “We’ll both aim to do better from now on.”

“That’s good to hear,” came a voice from the shadows as Treville appeared in the doorway. “I knew you two would get along if you spent some time together. I’m glad to see you’ve finally worked things out.”

Porthos glanced at Athos, who, if reddened cheeks were anything to go by, was sharing similar thoughts to him. “It’ll be a harmonious kitchen from now, M Treville,” he promised.

“Just what I wanted to hear,” said Treville, patting both men on the back and then retrieving the keys from the floor. “I’ll lock up. You two go on home. You must be exhausted.” He grinned suddenly, his expression incisive and slightly wicked. “By the way, gentlemen, there is a CCTV system installed here. It comes up in a window on my computer when I’m doing my accounts, which I have a habit of running through every evening after closing. It can be an enlightening experience.”

Never before had two men left a building in such a hurry.

“Holy shit!” said Porthos, falling out of the door in his eagerness to escape. “The boss saw what happened.”

“He was in the army,” said Athos with a shrug. “I imagine he’s witnessed far worse things than a bit of sex.”

“I don’t give a damn what he’s seen before.” Porthos pulled a face. “I don’t want anyone watching me at it on camera.”

“Then we must make sure we never do it again,” said Athos.

There was a long pause during which Porthos was shocked to discover how much the idea of _not_ doing it again bothered him. 

“On camera, that is,” continued Athos and then he surprised Porthos once more with a soft but long lasting kiss on the mouth. “Goodnight, Chef. See you in the morning.”

 

—


	9. Chapter 9

Having experienced the icy fall out from Cemeterygate—and that was only a cup of coffee and a friendly chat—Porthos was expecting no less than a total shutdown from Athos now that they’d unexpectedly bumped uglies. 

To begin with the day lacked promise. There was the usual team talk from Treville, followed by a rundown of new dishes from Athos which finished off at the patisserie section.

“Aramis, we need something lighter for the dessert menu. I know you love your chocolate but could we have something along the lines of a mille feuille, or perhaps îles flottantes? Something that would suit the season better.”

“Yes, Chef. I’ll put my thinking cap on,” replied Aramis, quite literally doing so, tucking stray strands of hair back inside the confines of the hat.

“Thank you.” Athos nodded and then turned to his apprentice. “D’Artagnan, I want you to create a simple seafood entrée. Put my lessons into practice and see what you can come up with.”

D’Artagnan looked unsure of himself. He hadn’t yet discovered his natural flair. “I’ll try my best.”

“I know you will,” replied the head chef. He turned to leave the kitchen and at the last minute glanced back over his shoulder. “Porthos, I need a word with you in my office, s’il vous plait.”

Porthos’ spirits sank lower and lower as he followed the taciturn man down the corridor. Was he being given his marching orders? If so, he’d bring it to a tribunal on the grounds of unfair dismissal or constructive dismissal. Some shit like that. There was no way he was going to take this lying down.

“Chef,” he began once they were inside the cramped room which was dimly lit and overstuffed with pieces of mismatched rustic furniture.

Athos ignored him. “Thank god it has a key,” he said, locking the door and then leaning back against it, his eyes alive with fire. “I couldn’t remember. Never had need of one before.”

He strode forwards, his intentions obvious, and Porthos filled with utter bloody relief.

“I thought you were going to sack me.” 

“Close,” said Athos, dropping to a crouch and unzipping Porthos’ flies. “Only one letter wrong.” He held Porthos’ cock in his hand, massaging until it was fully hard and then settled back on his heels to admire it. “I was thinking about this beauty all night.”

“All night?” Porthos looked down at him, aroused, elated and more than a little shocked by the turn of events.

“All of it.” Athos leaned in and swirled his tongue around the glistening crown. “I couldn’t wait to get to work today.” As if to prove that impatience, he inclined his head and swallowed Porthos to the hilt. 

Buried deep, Porthos shuddered with excitement. He was a generously hung man with limited sexual experience and deep throat was not something that had ever happened to him before. Arching his back, he tangled his fingers into Athos’ hair and began a slow thrust, taking his time, taking absolute pleasure.

“That’s it,” he murmured, porno style. “Have my cock. Have every inch of it.” 

Pushing Athos up against the heavy bookshelf, he fucked that pretty, sulky mouth, hips jerking as he came harder than he ever had in his life. Harder than he’d done at two in the morning with a hand wrapped around himself and Athos’ name on his lips.

“Swap,” he groaned, aching to reciprocate. Aching for more, but he knew this was neither the time nor the place for it. 

With his cock still out, swinging wet and heavy between his thighs, he knelt and freed Athos from his jeans, licking all the way up Athos’ shaft then sucking at the fat knob like a lollipop. He let it rest on his tongue, enjoying the sensation of salty warmth and then, with a moan of anticipation, began a steady suck.

“God, yes. So good.” Athos stroked Porthos’ face then rubbed at his shoulders, attentive and gentle until Porthos was utterly overwhelmed and never wanted this to end.

It did of course, with a strangled cry of delight and a rush of saline that provoked such an emotional response in Porthos that all he could do, once he had swallowed every drop, was press himself against Athos and hide his face.

Eventually he recovered enough to stand, battered, bewildered, and preparing himself for the usual chilly response.

“I’m sorry,” said Athos in a low voice once they had both sorted out their clothing. “I think I must have treated you dreadfully just now.”

“No.” Porthos shook his head, quick to reject the idea of any wrongdoing. “Not now. Not at all.” He bit at his lip, trying to find words that wouldn’t endanger this fragile new thing that was happening between them. “I never know what to expect from you. It unnerves me.”

“Marriage has taken its toll,” said Athos softly. “I find it hard to trust, to talk even. I can’t put into words how much your kindness has meant to me. I don’t deserve it, or you.” He flushed. “I hope I have you. I shouldn’t presume.”

“Presume away,” said Porthos, wrapping his arms tightly around Athos’ smaller frame. “And on that same topic, will you come home with me tonight?”

“I can’t imagine anything I’d like more,” replied Athos and then he inched grudgingly away as if leaving Porthos was the worst thing imaginable. “We must get back to work. The others will be wondering.”

“Gossiping more like,” chuckled Porthos. “But I bet they’ll never guess.”

*

Other than a few curious glances there were no questions asked, every member of the team rushed off their feet, working on new recipes and getting prep done ready for service. After such positive reviews from France’s most influential critic, La Garnison was busier than ever. To cope with demand, a new exterior dining platform had been constructed which increased their covers by an additional twenty percent, and there was talk of bringing in some additional, much needed members of staff to work in all areas, but for now it was just the four of them in the kitchen. 

Today may not have been a Friday, but nevertheless it was frantic from start to finish.

“Are we ever going to get away from here tonight?” muttered Porthos, catching Athos’ eye. 

The head chef smiled. “We will,” he said under his breath. “And I promise you it will be worth it.”

When the time finally came it was indeed worth it. Worried that he hadn’t pulled up the duvet or tidied the bathroom, Porthos discovered that these were minor details. The ready rumpled bed was a stage for hour upon hour of mind blowing sex and afterwards the extra large and slightly grubby bathtub became a venue for some gentle intimacy. Sleep didn’t happen until the first hint of dawn crept into the eastern corner of the sky.

They were very late for work next morning. Separating with a kiss at the entrance to the deserted staff room, Porthos then floated into the kitchen, naively convinced that no one would guess his new relationship status.

“So when did this happen between you and Athos?” asked Aramis, ripe with curiosity. “Give us all the sordid details, my friend. Dish the dirt.”

Porthos shrugged. “We just bumped into each other on the way to work.”

“Yeah right,” said d’Artagnan. “And I suppose your fingers _accidentally_ locked together at the same time?”

Porthos’ eyes widened. He was totally unaware that they had been holding hands when they arrived at the restaurant. “Okay, okay,” he conceded, too happy to bother hiding. “It’s no big thing,” he said, which was a downright lie because this was the biggest thing that had ever happened to him. “We hooked up a couple of days ago and it’s turning out to be pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” queried Aramis, his eyebrows raised.

“Alright.” Porthos was unable to restrain the smugness any longer. “It’s bloody amazing. _He’s_ bloody amazing.”

“So our grumpy head chef has hidden talents.” Aramis chuckled. “Seriously though, I’m really happy for you both.”

“And I, in turn, will be really happy when you three stop nattering and get on with some cooking,” said Athos from the doorway.

“Yes, Chef,” replied Aramis and then he couldn’t resist aiming his cheeky trademark grin at the boss. “Congratulations.”

“No need for all that nonsense,” said Athos brusquely. “Porthos and I aren’t engaged in anything other than a lot of really great sex.”

Satisfied by the astonished faces surrounding him, he smirked and left the room.

*

As far as Porthos was concerned, life was one beautiful bed of roses and it couldn’t get any better. All these years he’d been on his own and had never regretted it, devoting every second to cooking, but having Athos— _having Athos_ : just the thought turned him into a grinning idiot—made him realise how much he’d been missing out on.

His greatest pleasure, other than that never ending supply of really great sex, came from having someone to discuss every aspect of food with at all hours of the day and night. Within weeks, Athos was a permanent fixture in his bed. Passionate, intelligent and downright gorgeous, he was a fucking beast between the sheets, rampant as well as being utterly loving and lovable.

“I’m crazy about Athos de la Fère.” Stationed in front of the gas hob in his small galley kitchen, Porthos laughed with wonderment at these insane words.

“And how long have you been crazy about me?” An arm snaked around his waist and fingers slid downwards into his boxers, making him stiff within seconds.

“Watch it, matey, I’m cooking,” said Porthos, swatting the hand away. “My sex does _not_ want to be on fire. Give me a minute.”

“Answer the question,” said Athos, still teasing and now kissing a meandering path across his back to add to the level of frustration. “How long?”

“Forever,” groaned Porthos. “Always.”

“Right answer,” said Athos, his voice full of laughter as he disentangled himself. “You may now carry on making me lunch.”

“You’re a wicked man,” grumbled Porthos, pushing Athos backwards towards the couch, all the time sucking kisses onto his neck and making him moan with delight. “And I’m a dirty liar. I’ve been mad about you for forty seven days. Totally outstanding ones at that.”

Half dressed as they were, a rough and ready fuck was the perfect conclusion to this exchange. 

“Bend over,” instructed Porthos, pushing Athos down across the back of the sofa. These days there was always lube to hand. “That’s it. That is so bloody good.”

“You need to get a leather couch,” said Athos afterwards as he wiped away the worst of the mess with a pair of discarded pants.

“You make most of the mess so I reckon you should be the one to fork out for it.” Porthos pulled Athos close.

“Nope.” Athos shook his head. “The mess ratio is definitely fifty-fifty.”

“Eighty-twenty.”

“Sixty-forty.”

“Seventy-thirty.”

Done.” Athos grinned. “Your onions are beyond sweating, by the way. And that’s not a euphemism.”

Porthos charged back to the kitchen to try and rescue them before they turned to cinders but was too late. “Shit! Now my jerk chicken livers are going to be extra blackened.”

This, however, turned out to be a happy accident and Porthos rejoiced as he tasted his new dish and then forked some into Athos’ mouth. “Good, huh?”

“Spectacular,” agreed Athos. “Serve them with onion marmalade and it’ll be the perfect summer entrée.”

With a rumble of pleasure, Porthos reached for Athos’ hand and pressed a kiss to the palm. “I like cooking with you,” he said. “I hope you don’t use these kind of methods when you’re training d’Artagnan.”

Athos laughed. “He’s a mere apprentice. He gets to lick my boots. You, my sous, get the sole pleasure of my cock.”

And what a pleasure it was, thought Porthos as he knelt in front of Athos and put his mouth to thoroughly good use.

*

Another wonderful part of this relationship was being able to walk to work at first light, discussing menus and looking forward to a day spent together in the kitchen. On the downside, once they’d arrived at La Garnison, Porthos then had to put up with the requisite hour or so of teasing. For obvious reasons, no one dared pick on Athos.

“So, have you finally set the date?” asked Aramis once the happy couple had parted company with their usual kiss, Athos heading up the wooden staircase to discuss new staff applications with Treville.

“Can’t because he’s still married to someone,” shrugged Porthos, putting on his whites. He wasn't actually a fan of marriage, didn’t see the need for it, but he wasn’t about to get drawn in to a discussion. Today was all about sea urchin and roe.

“Ah, yes,” said Aramis. “The infamous Milady de Winter. I met her once, you know. She’s exquisitely beautiful, but very intimidating.”

“Don’t care,” said Porthos, who had no interest in the woman.

“Not now you’ve turned Chef gay,” sniggered d’Artagnan, hanging up his coat in the locker.

The sound of a throat being cleared behind them made everyone jump to attention, including Porthos.

”For your information, d’Artagnan, I’ve had an egalitarian interest in both men and women my whole life.” Athos leaned on the door frame, cup of coffee in hand. “Now would you like to continue to discuss my personal affairs, or shall we get on with your training?”

Porthos grinned when everyone else hurtled off in the direction of the kitchen, like greyhounds from a trap, all jostling for position. Athos may have been soft spoken, but he definitely wielded the power of authority.

“And what would you like me to do?” he asked in a gruff voice, closing the gap between them.

“See whether Treville likes the chicken liver entrée. After that your urchin dish needs some refinement and then there’s mise en place to get on with.” Athos licked at the seam of Porthos’ mouth, kisses intensifying and then ebbing away. “The rest we can work on later.”

“Yes, Chef.” Porthos was very much looking forward to later.

“Now I need to teach d’Artagnan a lesson,” said Athos. “In more ways than one.”

 

—


	10. Chapter 10

Being in a relationship had given Porthos a brand new outlook on life, but he was still taken aback when he opened the door to one of the less frequently used store rooms and discovered Aramis getting intimately acquainted with Anne Bourbon.

“Shit,” he said. “Sorry,” and grabbing the ice cream churner he backed out in a hurry.

Later, when Aramis approached him to talk, he shook his head. “I don’t want to know, bro. This is your life and your mess. You get on with it and I won’t say a word to anyone.”

“It’s not what you think,” said Aramis. 

Porthos may have been gay, but he was pretty sure he knew what penis in vagina was all about. “Honestly, I think it is,” he said, “but I’ll keep quiet. Athos’ll feel obliged to tell Treville and Treville will go mental, so let’s just forget I saw anything.”

“Thank you,” said Aramis. “But-“

“But please find somewhere else to do it,” interrupted Porthos. “The cupboards here are for storage and nothing else.”

Aramis chuckled. “Don’t tell me lover boy hasn’t taken you up against the pantry shelving? How disappointing.”

“What Athos and I get up to is our business,” growled Porthos. 

“My advice is to watch out for the security cameras,” said Aramis. “Don’t want the boss getting an eyeful of your overly large cock.” 

Luckily for Porthos his dark skin hid the sudden attack of embarrassment and, head down, he got on with developing his new roasted fennel ice cream.

Aramis’ risky love life wasn’t all he had to contend with at present. There were now two new apprentices in La Garnison’s kitchen, Brujon and Clairmont, firm friends who had arrived fresh from catering college, ready to take on the world.

With d’Artagnan still being trained by Athos, it fell to Porthos to slap these new boys into shape and get them grounded in the basics of a commercial kitchen. Cooking for a living was damn hard work and the sooner they learned that the better.

“Mango would work nicely with that salt cod,” said Brujon, peering over his shoulder. “I tried something similar to that in my first year.”

“Get back to your bench and finish shucking those oysters,” said Porthos, faintly annoyed because it was one of the flavours he’d been thinking of trying.

“Do as he says, Brujon,” ordered D’Artagnan who was enjoying having someone, other than Jacques the kitchen porter, beneath him on the chef’s line. “Clairmont has almost finished setting up the outside bar so you need to get a move on. We need at least two hundred shelled by lunchtime.”

Treville’s idea of serving champagne and oysters to the summer trade was proving very popular, not that Porthos could understand it himself. In fact, he could imagine nothing worse than ruining a glass of chilled Veuve Clicquot with some polluted sea slime.

Athos smiled at him. “Stop pulling a face,” he said. “Many people love oysters. Each to their own.”

“I can think of something salty that I’d much rather have in my mouth,” murmured Porthos. Checking to see if anyone was nearby, he reached around to squeeze Athos’ bum. “Fancy a cheeky nooner in your office?”

“Sounds perf-“

“Has anyone seen my new sommelier?” asked Constance, bustling into the kitchen and interrupting their moment. 

“Sorry, no,” said Athos.

“That man is a nightmare. He’s probably gone home with another headache.” Constance sighed and sank wearily onto one of the stools. As Maitre d’, she had a lot on already without having to teach new staff how to pour wine and wait tables. “I’m beginning to wish we’d stayed under the radar,” she said. “Bloody Louis Bourbon and his review column.”

Porthos glanced over his shoulder at Aramis who was too busy making tangerine mousse to notice that he was under scrutiny. “Don’t wish too hard or it might all come crashing down.”

“Not like you to be pessimistic,” said Athos, raising an eyebrow.

“Just a case of summertime blues,” Porthos reassured him. “Everyone’s on holiday and we’re stuck here working twice as hard.”

“You don’t have to be mad to work in a kitchen, but it helps,” quipped Aramis.

“He’s onto something there,” said Porthos, watching as d’Artagnan fussed around Constance, bringing her a glass of water and a quick bite to eat. “You’re a good boyfriend, kid,” he said.

“He’s the best,” confirmed Constance, getting to her feet and wiping away cracker crumbs. “I suppose I should go back to work. Hopefully Sylvie will have tracked down my missing wine waiter by now. That one’s a keeper.”

“Is Constance okay?” Porthos asked d’Artagnan once she’d returned to the dining room. “She looks worn out.”

The young man frowned. “Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she be? She’s the same as everyone else — too fucking busy.”

“Enough, d’Artagnan.” Athos chastened him gently. “For once we’re ahead of ourselves, so take a minute to calm down. Don’t lash out at Porthos.”

Out of his shell, Athos was proving to be a kind soul as well as a stalwart leader. His staff were not only enthralled by him, they were also passionately loyal and now that the green eyed monster had been replaced with heart eyes, Porthos was entirely approving of the situation.

“D’Artagnan’s not the only one who’s a good boyfriend,” he said as they sauntered home at midnight, tired but happy.

“I know you are so there’s no need to brag,” said Athos.

Porthos slung an arm around Athos’ shoulders. “Pillock,” he said, using his favourite friendly insult. “I meant you and you know it. You’re also a bloody good boss. D’Artagnan and Aramis think the world of you.”

As was their habit, they stopped on the bridge, both men staring out at the river which shimmered with reflections of city life.

“And you?” Athos looked sideways at him.

“Je t’aime,” said Porthos, his voice quiet, his words sincere.

“Moi aussi,” replied Athos, leaning in to kiss him.

The sex that night was beautiful. They took all the time in the world with each other, mouths locked as they rolled between tangled sheets, tethered not only by cotton, but by a need to be together.

“I’ve never been in love before,” confessed Porthos afterwards, when they were basking in the afterglow. “I never understood the point. I thought it would be really limiting.”

“It can be.” Athos peppered Porthos’ chest with kisses. “We’re lucky. We urge each other on,” he said, straddling his body with no intention other than to be close, cocks resting together, soft and comforting. “But sometimes it can be a tug of war, both pulling in opposite directions.”

“Like you and your wife?” asked Porthos.

“That was worse.” Athos reached over to the bedside table for a bottle of water. “She did everything she could to hurt me. By the end of our marriage she hated me. Maybe she always hated me, I don’t know.”

“And you?” asked Porthos, pleased that the man was opening up at last.

Athos opened the bottle and took a swig. “I loved her once,” he said simply and then placed the water back on the table and looked at his phone. “Damn, is that the time? We need to get some sleep.”

*

“Don’t make a habit of this,” warned Treville as two tardy chefs hurtled into the kitchen, over an hour later than usual.

“Sorry M Treville,” said Porthos, fastening the buttons on his top. “It won’t happen again.” Yesterday had been a red letter day. Love was a momentous word and it required a lot of follow up action. “We were up late. We had stuff to talk about.”

“Apparently so do d’Artagnan and Constance,” said Treville. “The rest of us have been kept in suspense waiting for you two idiots to show up.” He turned to the young couple. “Go on then. Out with it.”

His abrupt manner was not helping things along. Both d’Artagnan and Constance looked apprehensive and Porthos was beginning to get the jitters.

“It can’t be that bad,” he said with a toothy grin of encouragement.

“Constance is pregnant and we’re going to get married,” blurted out d’Artagnan.

“That’s wonderful news,” said Aramis. “We couldn’t be happier for you. Why the long faces?”

“Because my husband is Bonacieux, the interior designer and he has a client list so full of stars that it looks like the night sky,” explained Constance, tripping over her words in a hurry to get them out. “I’m sorry, M Treville. He could make life really difficult. D’Artagnan and I tried to choose the sensible option, but we just can’t. We love each other and we already love our baby.”

“Don’t be daft,” said Treville, gruff and yet fatherly in manner. “Get hitched. Be a happy family.”

“Thank you, M Treville.” said d’Artagnan, taking over from Constance who was by now too emotional to speak. “But we’re worried what effect this might have on the restaurant.”

“So what if we lose a few names from the booking sheets,” said Treville, matter-of-factly. “There’ll be plenty more where they came from. How many houses can one man paint?”

“A lot,” said Constance with a sigh. “And Bonacieux will be sure to fight dirty.”

“Remember that the pen is mightier than the sword,” said Treville. “The good reviews from Louis will have far more impact that the bad mouthings of a decorator. Mark my words. All will be fine.”

“It will,” agreed Athos. “Congratulations to you both.”

“And now that’s sorted, you lot need to get some bloody work done,” insisted Treville. “We’ve a lot of catching up to do.”

“Yes, Boss,” replied Aramis with a mock bow. “At the double.”

“One more thing, Constance,” said Treville, looking at her over the top of his glasses. ‘Will Sylvie be ready to take over from you when you’re on maternity leave?”

“She’s ready now,” beamed Constance. “She’s a star.”

 

—


	11. Chapter 11

As a result of the happy news, La Garnison was now more of a family than ever, expanding all the time but always in support of each other. In preparation for parenthood, Constance had become mother hen to her young apprentices, and if that wasn’t enough she’d also taken Brujon and Clairmont under her wing.

“Don’t snap at them so,” she complained to d’Artagnan at the end of evening service. “They’re bound to make mistakes; they’re still learning. Take a leaf out of Athos’ books.”

“I will,” said d’Artagnan, eager to please both his fiancée and his mentor. “Come on, woman. Time to go home and put your feet up.”

From the window, Porthos watched them leave the restaurant and wander hand in hand to the staff car park. “It must burn,” he said, a cheeky eyebrow raised at Athos as they gave the kitchen a final once over before heading off themselves.

Athos frowned at him. “What must?”

“Having that ruddy great sun stuck up your arse all day long,” chuckled Porthos.

“Bastard.” Athos fixed him with a hard stare, but there was definite smize behind those eyes.

“Smug bastard.” Porthos grinned. “Ready to go?”

“Never more so,” yawned his partner. 

“Day off tomorrow. What do you want to do?” said Porthos, opening his locker and putting on his jacket.

“Lots of sex.” Athos kissed him with intent. “Then I suppose I ought to pay a visit to my flat. I haven’t been back there for a while.”

“I like the sound of the fucking,” growled Porthos, nipping at that pretty mouth and slipping a hand downwards for a grope.

Athos abruptly pulled away. “Big Brother's watching,” he murmured, pointing upwards at the small camera in the corner of the staff room. “You’ll have to keep your pants on unless you want your cock to be a movie star again.” 

For some bizarre reason that turned Porthos on immensely and he couldn’t stop thinking about it all the way home. As soon as they crossed the threshold, he shoved Athos up against the wall, stroking him roughly through his jeans. “I want to film us,” he said, his voice cracking with desire. 

Athos ended the kiss. “Having sex?”

“No, making dinner.” Porthos rolled his eyes. “Yeah, of course having sex. Fucking, making love, whatever you want.” He gulped. “I want to film you sucking me off. You look so amazing when you’re on your knees for me.”

He was already aching hard just from the thought of this.

“No,” said Athos. “Not a chance. I’m not having anything like that on iCloud.”

Porthos frowned, taken aback by the negative response to his suggestion. “Why?” He asked. “D’you seriously think I’m going to post it online? Even if we break up I’d never do anything like that.”

Athos said nothing and gnawed at his lip, avoiding Porthos’ eyes.

“We’re not going to break up.” Porthos came closer, a hand curling around the back of Athos’ neck, dispersing the tension with some gentle rubbing. Quite different from the part he’d been planning on massaging. “Never. I promise you.”

“Promises are made to be broken,” said Athos and he finally looked up, eyes muddied with memories of a past life. “These kind of things can all too easily be exploited. If Milady got her hands on a sex tape of us then she would, without question, use it against me in the divorce.”

“That’s just your paranoia talking,” said Porthos gently.

It was the wrong thing to say and Athos lashed out in retaliation, Porthos catching his fist before it made contact. “You’re not only paranoid; you’re also a bad tempered motherfucker,” he snapped, pushing Athos away from him.

He could have picked his words more wisely, but it was late and he was tired and incredibly frustrated.

“You have no idea what she’s like,” hissed Athos, slamming his way into the bathroom. “She can never be trusted. No one can ever be trusted.”

“Fuck you,” said Porthos and stomped off to bed.

Waking up alone was a horrible experience. He had grown used to having Athos curled around him all night, his face the first and last thing he saw each day. The man was an utter darling in the mornings, that smile all sleepy and lopsided, eyes half open and cock fully hard.

Heart in his mouth, Porthos fell into a panic. Athos was an alcoholic depressive. He could have done anything, gone anywhere after Porthos had gone to bed. With utter relief he discovered him fast asleep on the couch, cocooned inside one of their overly large hygge throws.

After going for a much needed pee, Porthos made breakfast, hoping it would be taken as intended — a gesture of apology and love.

He watched Athos as he poured coffee and plated up warm pastries. The man slept as if he had no cares in the world and yet it was clear from yesterday’s argument that he was still haunted by the trauma of a bad marriage.

“You’re a confusing bugger,” he said as he set the tray down on the coffee table and squeezed in next to the curled up body. “But I love you. I’ll always love you. No need for promises.”

“Huh?’ Athos rolled over onto his back and stretched, sleepy smile being replaced by a sad expression when memories returned.

“I love you,” repeated Porthos. “And don’t bother trying to push me away because it won’t work.”

“You should run away screaming,” replied Athos somberly. “I’m no catch.”

Porthos grinned. “You’re my catch and I’m going to shove you against a flat surface and nail you down hard.”

“Bang away with your hammer action.” Athos sat up. “And drill me into place.”

“Use my tool good and proper.” Porthos was about to frame the bulge in his boxers, ghetto style, but then, all of a sudden, the banter felt wrong. “I’m sorry for everything I said last night.” He took hold of Athos’ hand and kissed the palm. It was a gesture he made often, but never before by way of apology. “I love you and I’ll never put pressure on you, or question you again. You’re my world, Athos. Please don’t doubt it.”

“You’re my world too,” said Athos. “I’m sorry I freaked out.”

“I love it when you get freaky,” said Porthos, loading jam onto a croissant and passing it sideways. “I also love it when you’re sticky sweet and covered in pastry crumbs.”

Breakfast was a slow process involving several cups of coffee and a lot of kissing, although for a change things never progressed beyond that, both men needing comfort of a different kind after the bitter exchanges of last night. 

Maybe it was a good thing, thought Porthos as he took his morning shower. They’d been on heat for the entire length of their relationship, every little thing leading to sex, sex, and more sex. Maybe this smackdown was necessary.

It was almost noon by the time they set out for Athos’ flat, with plans to spoil themselves afterwards with some comfort shopping and a late lunch.

“You don’t have to come in,” said Athos, when they arrived at the steps of the rundown building.

“You want me to stand under a lamp post and wait for you?” Porthos snorted. “I might get mistaken for a working girl.”

“It would take a truck load of RuPaul makeup and a very large dress,” sniggered Athos.

Porthos frowned. “You saying I’m fat and ugly?”

Athos kissed him. “I’m saying you’re a beautiful man who’d make a very ugly woman.”

“You’d be pretty,” smiled Porthos, mentally removing the facial hair and adding liner to those big green eyes. “Real pretty.”

“Would not and it’s never going to happen,” replied Athos. “You need to put a lock on your fantasy box.” He started up the steps. “Are you coming in?”

Porthos followed him inside, waiting as he collected his mail from the pigeon hole and then trudging behind him up the staircase.

“I came here looking for you,” he confessed. “Twice actually. Your neighbour across the hall hates me.”

“She hates everyone,” said Athos, unlocking the door.

The flat was not what Porthos was expecting. He’d imagined it to be a complete muddle with books, clothes, and newspapers strewn everywhere, the room smelling damp and slightly rodenty to match the common area of the building.

There was indeed a faint aroma of decay in the air, but the place itself was spartan, the bay window empty of drapery, the rooms lacking furniture. Even the kitchenette was pared back to basics.

“I never bothered,” explained Athos before Porthos could comment. “It didn’t seem worth it. Milady still lives in the house.”

Porthos took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. “This place needs at least one happy memory,” he said, stripping Athos of his t-shirt and then pulling him down onto the mattress. “After this, you get your mail redirected to mine and never come here again.”

Athos shrugged off the remainder of his clothing and then lay back, a hand tucked behind his head as he watched the strip show. Reaching out, he stroked Porthos’ cock until it was fully hard and then fumbled about in the bedside drawer for a tube of hand cream.

“Condoms?” asked Porthos.

“I haven’t got any.” Athos rested a hand on Porthos’ arm. “Will that be a problem?”

Once again Porthos’ breath was taken away from him. Athos was such a gentle man, determined not to cause hurt. “Not for me,” he said gruffly, knowing that this was it — the moment they proved that trust did exist.

Working the makeshift lubricant over himself, he stretched Athos open, fingering him until he was pushing for more, arms hooked around Porthos’ neck, tongue slipping into his mouth.

“God,” moaned Porthos as he inched inside and felt Athos clamp around him, hot and tight and totally perfect. “Don’t move,” he begged.

It was so good, too good, and every part of him sang out with a need to climax, but he wasn’t about to give in. Not for hours, he decided, or maybe even days. 

With the tension at last easing, he began to fuck slowly, steadily, deep into his wonderful, wounded man, and he knew there was nothing better than this. No place he had travelled to had ever taken him to such heights. No food he had eaten. No dish he had created. There was nothing to rival this moment. Close to his limits, he reached downwards and wrapped a palm around Athos, every part moving in perfect synchronicity.

With a howl of pleasure Athos arched up from the mattress and came. The bare naked sensation of his climax was something that would stay with Porthos forever. Floating, falling, drifting, he reached the highest of all highs and body shuddering he collapsed downwards onto his wrung out rag of a lover.

“That was some making up,” he groaned, rolling over and looking up at a ceiling that was mottled with mildew. “Jesus, I’m totally knackered after that.”

“Me too,” said Athos, sitting up and reaching for the pile of mail which, in the heat of the moment, had been discarded on the floor. “I vote we skip shopping and find somewhere to eat.”

“Convenient, seeing as you hate mooching around clothes shops.”

“What?” Athos barely looked up from the letter he was reading

“I was just pointing out that you don’t like shopping.” Porthos glanced sideways at the official looking emblem at the top of the paper. “Anything important?”

“It’s from my lawyer,” said Athos. “Milady and her brief have requested a face to face meeting to iron out the finer details of the settlement. I suppose I’ll have to say yes.” He sighed. “Hopefully it’ll soon be over and I’ll be free of her.”

Porthos eyed their current surroundings. Divorce could only be an improvement on this. “Sounds like a plan,” he said. “I like the idea of you being free.”

“Free and easy?” smiled Athos.

“Free to be mine.” Porthos leaned back against a folded pillow, more than satisfied with life. “Don’t suppose you own anything resembling a coffee machine, do you? I’m parched.”

 

—


	12. Chapter 12

As predicted by Constance, Bonacieux ‘decorator to the stars’ was making a damn nuisance of himself. He wasn’t a big man, either in physique or in character, but he was an infuriating blue bottle, buzzing around and irritating the customers with his endless monologue of how dreadful it was to be the wronged man.

In addition to this, he would pester Constance, begging her to return to him. Promising that he would no longer take her for granted, but would love and cherish her. Even bring up the child as if it were his own.

“My dear, you can’t honestly be happy with the idea of giving up a _very_ luxurious lifestyle to live in squalor with a trainee cook?” From the doorway of the kitchen, Bonacieux peered disdainfully inside at the chefs.

“Please leave,” said Athos in a low voice, guiding him away. “Members of the public are not allowed in the service area.”

“I’ll go further than that and demand you remove yourself from my premises immediately,” said Treville, taking over from Athos and ushering the man towards the main entrance. “Don’t come here again unless you have a reservation.” He glowered. “And I warn you in advance that you’ll struggle to get one, so if I were you I wouldn’t bother trying.”

“I have every right to speak to my wife. She‘s-“ whined Bonacieux, the remainder of his complaint unintelligible now that the doors had slammed behind him.

“Show’s over, folks,” Treville announced to the crowded dining room. “I apologise wholeheartedly for the disturbance. It will be taken into account when you come to pay your bills.” And to a soundtrack of excited chatter, he returned to the kitchen.

“Sorted,” said Porthos, satisfied that the boss had everything under control.

“I wish.” Constance sank wearily onto one of the stools, taking a much needed break. “There’s no point telling him to stay away. He’s a dog with a bone.” She looked as defeated as she sounded. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this,” she continued, tears in her eyes. “It can’t be good for the baby. My blood pressure’s already sky high and the midwife told me I need to relax, but how can I with this going on? It’s hopeless. I told you he’d never give up.”

“He will,” said d’Artagnan. “Even if it means me ending up with a prison sentence to get him to do so.”

“Don’t be stupid, d’Artagnan,” snapped Constance. “As if spouting nonsense like that is going to help any of us.”

Porthos understood how much the young man was hurting, but this was crazy talk. “Don’t even think it,” he advised. “Threatening behaviour can get you in real deep shit.”

“But it can also have an effect,” said Aramis, looking thoughtful. “Porthos, you once implied that you knew someone who could be of use in this kind of situation.”

‘Absolutely not. Not happening,” said Porthos firmly. “No way.”

“Is your friend not the intimidating sort?” inquired Aramis.

“Oh, Charon’s intimidating all right,” said Porthos. “I just don’t think it’s a sensible move to make.”

“What else can we do?” asked d’Artagnan.

“I have some savings,” said Constance. “I’d gladly pay him a few thousand euro if he would just make Bonacieux leave us alone.”

Porthos never dreamt in a million years that Constance would be supportive of such a solution and realised then how desperate she must be. “He doesn’t need money. He’ll do it as a favour to me,” he said with conviction. The guy owed him big time after getting an unsuspecting and naïve young Porthos involved in one of his dodgy deals. “I’ll have a chat with him and see what he can do,” he said. “But I’m not making any promises.”

“Thank you,” sobbed Constance, getting up and flinging her arms around him.

“You’re family” said Porthos in a gruff voice. “Of course I’m going to do my best to help.”

*

“Have you spoken to your friend yet?” asked Athos when they were busy being the laziest men on earth, making the most of one of those rare days off. 

“You talking about Charon?” asked Porthos innocently. 

“Who else could I possibly mean?”

“I have a lot of friends.” Porthos was enjoying piquing Athos’ curiosity, but it was unfair to leave the man hanging for too long. He might do himself some damage. “I had a quick word with him last night. He’s more than happy to put the fear of god into Bonacieux. He hates smug, middle class pricks more than anything else in the world.”

“You’re sure this plan won’t backfire on any of us?” said Athos warily.

“He knows how far to push things,” Porthos reassured him. “He might be a criminal, but he’s clever and he’s definitely not your average thug.”

Athos seemed satisfied by this. “Charon’s a fantastic name,” he mused.

“You think so?” Porthos laughed. “I used to tease him rotten about it when we were kids. Called him Sharon and he used to go postal.” He frowned. “What’s so great about it?”

“Charon was the ferryman from Greek mythology, carrying the dead across the River Styx to Hades.”

Porthos burst out laughing. “That’s pretty funny,” he said. “He and I went on holiday to Algeria when we were young. The reason he owes me is because he planted a small amount cannabis on me, made sure I went through the ferry terminal in Marseille first, and then when I got caught he used me as a distraction while he carried the bulk of the stash through. Luckily I got away with a caution. He can be a bloody git at times. That’s why I don’t mind calling in the favour.”

“Not the way to treat a friend,” said Athos. “Have you travelled much?” 

“All over the world,” said Porthos proudly. “What about you?”

“Not really,” said Athos. “I did one tour of duty in Afghanistan, but that was about it.” He shrugged. “Since then I’ve hardly left Paris.”

Porthos had been wondering about his time spent in the military. “What happened over there?”

“A massive fuck up,” said Athos. “Some of our men got killed and the brass wanted to throw Treville under a bus for it. I was the newest lieutenant in the regiment, just out of military college, and they thought I would go along with them when they tried to manufacture enough evidence to take him to court martial. I refused to budge. I knew he’d only been following orders and I repeatedly said so. Of course, as far as the army is concerned, one is entirely responsible for one's own actions and so he and I were quietly discharged without honour.” He raised an eyebrow. “There you have it. The shortest military career in history.”

“Shit,” said Porthos. “That’s seriously messed up.”

“It was far worse for Treville than it was for me,” said Athos. “My father was disappointed, but I never actually wanted to be a soldier. I spent more time in the kitchens with the catering corps than I ever did on the parade ground.”

“But I bet your dad was proud when you got your first Michelin star,” said Porthos, trying to root out something positive from this story.

“I very much doubt it,” said Athos with a quirk of his lips. “Not unless you believe in the afterlife. He was dead by then.”

“And your mum?”

“She died giving birth to my brother.”

“So you’re an orphan just like me,” said Porthos. 

Athos looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he replied. “I suppose I am.”

“Who needs a biological family when we have each other and the guys at La Garnison?”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Athos, raising his mug of coffee. “Anything else you want to know?”

To be honest there was quite a lot—Athos remained a man of mystery—but Porthos wasn’t going to risk dredging up any further sadness today. “Nah,” he said, giving the man’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “All this soul searching has made me hungry. I challenge you to make us something quick and tasty in less than half an hour.” He decided to increase the difficulty level. “But no French cuisine is allowed. Nothing gourmet or rustic.”

“Damn,” said Athos. “So croque monsieur is out?”

“Yep.” Porthos folded his arms. “And so are omelettes and crepes.”

“Still easy,” yawned Athos, getting up from the sofa then plodding lazily into the kitchen where he proceeded to inspect the contents of fridge and cupboards. “You can’t go far wrong with pasta, even when it’s from a packet.”

It was always a joy to watch Athos cook, but there was nothing better than seeing him potter around the kitchen when he was totally at ease. He hummed as he worked, frying lardons of smoked pancetta until they were crisped beyond recognition and at the same time stirring gruyere into a creamy bechamel.

“Smells great,” said Porthos, slinking up behind him and dipping a finger into the sauce to taste it. “Yum. Can’t wait.”

Athos turned to face him. “Your task is to make dessert,” he said with a grin. “So get cracking.”

Porthos hated doing puddings and Athos knew it, but he did have one favourite from when he was a child. Mixing together butter, sugar, flour and egg yolks, he squeezed lemon juice into the batter then added whisked egg whites and poured it into ramekins. It had taken all of five minutes to put together. 

“How long’s your mac and cheese going to be?” he asked.

“Ready in five, Chef,” said Athos with confidence.

“I’ll put this in the oven now,” grinned Porthos. “Unless you want me to wait for you to catch up?”

“Show off.” Athos drained the macaroni then added it to the sauce. Finishing off the dish with a mixture of breadcrumbs, blue cheese and pancetta, he then placed it under the grill to crisp. “Et voila,” he said moments later as he served it up.

Porthos sat at the breakfast bar and dived into the pasta. There must have been an entire day’s calories in this one dish, but he couldn’t have cared less. It was wonderful, the sauce loaded with cheese, pops of mustard seeds and pepper giving it zing, then blue cheese and ham hitting the taste buds and seasoning the whole thing to perfection.

“Serve that at La Garnison and you’ll have a queue forming outside,” he said. “It’s bloody gorgeous.”

“It’s mac and cheese,” said Athos, forking up his last piece of pasta. “Made with dried macaroni.”

“Don’t care.” Porthos scraped up the few remaining crumbs. “It’s proper blue ribbon cooking.“ 

As soon as the timer went off, he carried plates over to the sink then opened the oven to inspect his lemon puddings. They were golden brown and the sponge was perfectly set. Taking them out, he dredged the tops with icing sugar and let them sit whilst he made coffee.

“They smell good,” said Athos. “Are they ready yet?”

“Patience, grasshopper,” grinned Porthos as he poured the espresso.

A minute later he placed ramekins and cups onto the breakfast bar. “Your dessert, sir.”

“Technically coffee should be served afterwards.” Athos’ eyes crinkled with amusement. 

“Drink it when it’s cold then. See if I care.” Porthos dipped his spoon into the pudding, afraid that it might not have worked. He heaved a sigh of relief as the lightest of sponges gave way to a lemon curd sauce at the bottom. It tasted just as he remembered from his childhood. 

“This is astonishingly good,” remarked Athos. “I can’t believe you rustled it up so quickly.”

“Magic,” said Porthos. “I’m cleverer than you think.”

Athos’ smile was full and glorious. “You underestimate me if you think I’ve ever doubted your intelligence.”

“Sweet talker,” said Porthos, moments before crushing his mouth against Athos’ lips. 

He loved everything about this man and fancied him rotten, but it was those words, those beautifully spoken words, that made him hard in seconds. 

“I’m pretty sure I wanted to fuck you as soon as I heard you speak.” The confession was aimed at himself as well as Athos.

They had long since mastered the art of kitchen sex, but Porthos was always ready to try something new. Sitting up on the worktop, he dragged Athos closer until he was situated between his spread thighs. Sucking kisses onto his neck, he unzipped and unbuckled until Athos’ cock was released from its prison and begging for attention. Then, using the first thing that came to hand, he slathered the shaft with butter and began a slow stroke.

“That’s going to stain,” complained Athos, although he wasn’t exactly shying away from it. On the contrary, he was happily pushing himself into Porthos’ fist.

“Well, take your clothes off,” suggested Porthos, undoing his own jeans, shoving both them and his boxers lower to allow easy access and then sitting back down.

He watched the strip show appreciatively, greasing himself up with the last of the butter and pulling lazily at his cock. “Ride me,” he said once Athos was naked, holding out his free hand to tempt him in. 

Athos looked uncertain. “If the counter gives way I’ll kill you,” he said.

“And if you don’t get your arse onto my knee right now I’ll die of frustration,” growled Porthos, gesturing at him to come closer with a flick of his fingers.

Using the kitchen stool as a mounting block, Athos climbed Porthos, sinking down onto his slippery cock with an audible sigh of pleasure. “Mmm, that feels good.”

The heat enveloping him was too much and Porthos inadvertently thrust upwards, eliciting a yelp of pain and then a grumble of disapproval. “Sorry,” he said, his lower lip pouty and penitent.

Athos sucked it into his mouth, nipping at it and then turning his attention to Porthos’ tongue. 

Porthos shivered with delight. Oh, how that man could kiss! Exploring every inch of him, exposing his need and his want and stripping him bare. This was maximum level teasing. Fighting the urge to slam him onto the counter and fuck his brains out, he instead remained as still as a statue, kissing Athos back, licking into him and moaning softly as the pleasure built and built.

“Now,” he begged. “Please. I need you.”

Ever so slowly Athos began to move, rising up, shimmying just a little then sinking back down and grinding himself into Porthos’ lap. With his arms braced against the cupboards, pink slip of tongue poking out from between his teeth to aid concentration, he proceeded to give Porthos the ride of his life.

It was intense and beautiful, without doubt the best sex ever, and with his fingers still slick with butter Porthos slid a hand between them, ready to pull Athos off. One touch was all it took. With a cry of delight Athos came hot over his skin, slamming down onto him and causing a chain reaction.

“Fuck!” cried Porthos, clamping both arms around his lover and spilling deeper and deeper into him with every thrust of his body. “Fuck,” he groaned again when it was over. “I can’t even- I have no words.”

“My knees hurt,” complained Athos with a grin.

“Beg pardon?” Porthos’ jaw dropped. “We just had world record breaking sex and that’s all you’ve got to say about it?”

Athos climbed unsteadily off his lap. “Well, I did do all the work so it would be rather like complimenting myself.”

Porthos swiped at that bare bum with a handy tea towel. “There are times when I really don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Yes, you do,” said Athos, emphasising this with a kiss. “Now go wash the dishes while I have a shower and a much needed lie down.”

“Lazybones,” yelled Porthos at Athos’ departing back. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” came the answer.

 

—


	13. Chapter 13

“He’s here,” Porthos informed everyone as he peered around the kitchen doorway and watched Charon and partner take a seat in the restaurant.

The first couple of times their plan had misfired, Charon having been out of the country when Bonacieux had turned up to air some more dirty linen, but today was a go go go situation.

The decorator was doing his usual thing, ranting and raving, causing no end of trouble when Charon got to his feet and strode towards the middle aged man, who was clearly no match for him in physique.

“Look, tosser, I’ve had it up to here with you,” he said in a low and yet incredibly menacing tone of voice. “This is the third time I’ve eaten here recently when you’ve not only made a fool of yourself, but also ruined my dinner.”

A crowd was gathering — customers watching the show appreciatively and staff poking their heads out from behind the scenes to get a good view of the action. Bonacieux, in comparison, did _not_ appear to be enjoying himself, gulping noticeably when his antagonist reached out and stroked the lapel of his jacket between finger and thumb.

“See, this place is my favourite restaurant,” continued Charon. “Now I’m not going to stop coming here—the food’s too damn good for that—but if I ever see you again.” He stepped back and patted the bulging side of his jacket where a hand gun might sit comfortably in its holster. “Well, who knows what might happen?” He enunciated the next sentence very clearly. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Oui, monsieur,” stammered Bonacieux.

“Good.” Charon slipped an arm around his shoulders. “Now let me walk you outside and we can go over a few pointers on the way.”

When he returned a few minutes later to take his seat, the entire restaurant spontaneously erupted into a deafening round of applause. 

“Thank you, monsieur,” said Treville with feeling. “Rest assured that you are welcome to dine here on the house whenever you wish.”

“You’ll probably regret saying that,” replied Charon. “I had no idea my mate could cook such good grub.”

Porthos, who had been listening in from the front desk, gave him a quick thumbs up and then returned to the kitchen in high spirits.

“Do you think it will have worked?” asked d’Artagnan anxiously. “I mean he didn’t directly threaten him.”

“Oh, he did,” said Porthos with a firm nod. “You might not have taken it as such but I promise you Bonacieux wasn’t in any doubt. He won’t be back.” He then grinned at Constance. “I reckon you’ll have a set of divorce papers on your doormat tomorrow morning.”

“Well done,” said Athos, slipping his arm around Porthos’ waist. “Would you mind taking charge of the kitchen for a couple of hours? I have a meeting at my solicitors this afternoon. I’m hoping it won’t take too long to come to an agreement, but I have been warned that these things can drag on.”

“No problem,” said Porthos, kissing Athos on the cheek and picking up on some tension as he did so. “You want me to go with you?”

Athos smiled. “I’m picturing Treville’s face if he finds out we’ve both left him in the lurch.” He shifted just enough for the kiss to have more impact. “I’ll be damn glad when it’s over, but I’ll be fine.”

Loathed to let him go, Porthos manoeuvred him into a quiet corner and pinned him against the cupboards, taking advantage and going in for a proper snog. “I’ll miss you.” It was surprising how true that was. They’d barely spent any time apart in the past few months. “Hurry back.”

“I will,” promised Athos, detaching himself and straightening his clothes.

Aramis tutted in exaggerated fashion as he walked past. “Kitchens are for cooking not sex.” He then stopped and grinned at both men. “Time and place, my friends. Time and place. You need to pick your moment.”

“I believe you’ll find that’s bad timing on your part, M d’Herblay,” remarked Athos. “Porthos is head chef this afternoon and I’m sure he’ll make you pay for your cheek.” His lip curled into a half smile. “At least, I very much hope he does.”

“See you later,” said Porthos as his boyfriend turned and headed for the staff room. “Don’t be long.”

“I won’t,” replied Athos, raising a hand in farewell at which Porthos sighed, missing him already.

“Soft hearted idiot.” Aramis slung an arm around his best friend’s shoulders and encouraged him back to work. “You won’t really make me do penance, will you, chèri? I haven’t got time to prep the potatoes.”

“That’s true,” said Porthos with a nod. “Because you’ll be on the fish station with Brujon, peeling and deveining a million prawns.”

“Rotten bugger,” said Aramis landing a playful punch.

Nowadays, the kitchens at La Garnison were a happy place of work. Porthos loved being there more than ever, especially now that his team was expanding. His confidence had returned, his cooking was reaching new levels of innovative excellence, and he was a very contented soul.

“You’re a new man” said Aramis as he gently worked whipped egg whites into the raspberry batter. “Told you all you needed was a good shag.”

“Shagging has nothing to do with it,” replied Porthos.

“Then why do you keep staring at the door every five minutes if you aren’t pining for your lover boy?” Aramis grinned. “Where has he gone, by the way?”

“His lawyers,” said Porthos. “Agreeing a settlement.” This divorce needed sorting out for all their sakes. He’d never met Milady de Winter, but it was clear she was currently riding roughshod over her husband and he deserved better treatment.

“I hope you get some resolution quickly,” said Aramis. “There’s nothing worse than a complicated marital situation,” he added blithely.

Porthos raised his eyebrows but didn’t pass comment. How Aramis acted as if he didn’t have a care in the world was a mystery to him.

It was much later than expected when Athos returned. Evening service was in that final frenzy before the kitchens closed for the night and Porthos barely spoke two words to him, although he did ogle him from a distance in his three piece suit.

“You’ve had a haircut and a shave,” he remarked now that the finish line had been crossed and he finally had a chance to stop and talk.

“Yes.” Athos seemed distracted. “Thought it best I didn’t turn up looking like a tramp. Are you ready for home?”

There was still clearing to be done, but for once Porthos decided to leave the overseeing of it to someone else. His man needed attention and that was a priority. Plus he looked fucking amazing. “Sure am,” he said eagerly. “Let’s go.”

Athos was as silent as the grave on the walk home. Exhaustion was the cause of it, Porthos suspected and he was more than happy to chatter away and fill all the gaps.

“Do you mind if I have a drink?” asked Athos as soon as the front door slammed shut.

There was never much booze in the flat—some cheap cooking wine plus a drop of cognac—-and Porthos couldn’t see any harm in them having a nightcap. Athos’ problematic drinking certainly wasn’t manifesting itself as a physical addiction.

“Of course I don’t mind,” he replied. “I’ll have one too.”

Athos’ hand was shaking an awful lot as he poured brandies, the chinking of glass alerting Porthos to the fact. “You okay?” he asked when Athos passed him his drink and sank down next to him on the couch.

“I will be,” he said, his spirits noticeably low.

It wasn’t the most positive of answers, and so Porthos encouraged him to take a swig of his brandy then topped them both up. Getting a little drunk wasn’t a bad idea; in fact, it was probably the best way to relax. Up until now, they’d never had any of that alcohol fuelled, inhibition free sex. How dirty could they get? he wondered as excitement began to build.

“You look good enough to eat,” he said with a wicked grin, putting his empty glass down on the side table and kneeling in front of Athos. “We can have the suit cleaned if this gets messy,” he said as he unzipped the trousers and bent his head, kneading softly at that cotton encased cock with a combination of teeth and lips.

Head lowered, Athos spread his arms out along the back of the couch and groaned softly in submission. 

Peeling the boxers downwards, Porthos grinned and went to work, taking Athos into his mouth and sucking at him with relish until he was fully hard and leaking with pleasure. 

“You don’t half like it when I take you to pieces,” he grinned, stopping for a moment to survey the wanton result of his efforts.

Raising his head slowly, Athos looked at him, arousal diminishing by the second until he was completely soft. “I’m tired,” he said, fastening his clothing. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed.”

Porthos was disappointed, but he knew not to push things and instead took over the seat that Athos had vacated, that residual warmth offering him some solace. “Not a problem, darling.”

Athos wheeled around to stare at him. “Don’t call me that,” he said, his voice icy. “I don’t like it.”

Ouch, thought Porthos. Tonight was going to be one of _those_ nights. “Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll finish my drink and be along in a bit.” Going to bed hard wouldn’t be the best of ideas right now and frankly he was feeling unsettled. Rejection hurt. It also also frightened him a little. His useless mother had a lot to answer for.

“Goodnight,” said Athos. “Thank you for understanding.”

Porthos nodded, although truthfully he understood nothing.

Two drinks later, hoping that everything was now miraculously fixed between them, he slipped under the covers and wrapped an arm around Athos’ wam body, but was saddened when the man shifted away from him in his sleep. 

Unable to drift off, he lay on his back, following the beams of car headlights as they tracked across the ceiling. He hated feeling so helpless.

“No,” murmured Athos, tossing restlessly. “Don’t do it. I’m sorry.”

Porthos shushed him with quiet words and gentle kisses. “It’s okay. I’m here. Everything’s good.” Without doubt, something had disturbed the man a massive amount today. He wasn’t prone to dreaming and generally slept like a baby. 

“Anne, no!” Gasping for air, Athos fought Porthos off and sat up, searching around to pinpoint his location. 

“You’re here with me. You’re safe,” Porthos promised him, guiding him back down and into his arms. “Who’s Anne?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” muttered Athos, fighting to get away once more, then turning on his side to face the wall.

*

They hadn’t technically gone to bed angry with each other and so Porthos hoped that this would turn out to be a short lived bump on a very happy road. Unfortunately this wasn’t the case. The new day brought with it a distance between them and it was so strange, so hurtful, that Porthos had no clue how to tackle it other than employing his usual sledgehammer tactics.

“Are you ever going to tell me who this Anne is that you’re all worked up about?” he asked on the bus journey to La Garnison.

“I’m not worked up about her, and I don’t want to talk about it,” replied Athos. He glared at him from across the aisle. “It’s none of your business.”

“I thought you _were_ my business,” muttered Porthos, hating airing their dirty linen on public transport, but determined to get to the bottom of it before they reached work. “And I love you enough to want to sort whatever this is out before it tears you and me apart.” He folded his arms defiantly. “Who is she?”

Athos sighed. “If you must know, Anne is my wife. She’s officially Anne de la Fère, but for reasons known only to her, chooses to go by the name of Milady de Winter.”

“Thanks for telling me,” said Porthos, wishing the information brought him more comfort. Athos had sounded so desperate when he’d called her name out in his sleep last night.

The first of the autumn storms was in full force, rain lashing down in bucket loads, and drenched through, they hurried into the staff entrance and changed out of their wet clothes in silence.

“Are we okay?” asked Porthos his voice sounding unusually small to his ears as thunder rumbled ominously overhead.

“We will be,” replied Athos, but his attempt at a smile was a poor one. “A financial settlement has been reached and the divorce is going ahead smoothly.” That not quite smile morphed into something much grimmer. “I’ll soon be rid of her.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Porthos hated to seem so needy, but right now he was desperate for reassurance.

“It is,” replied Athos and then abruptly changed the subject. “If you could organise the specials today I’d be most grateful.”

“Can do,” said Porthos. He always had two or three dishes up his sleeves, ready to roll into production whenever they were needed. “I could go over them with you, if you like?”

“Actually I’m rather busy,” said Athos and he made another poor attempt at a smile. “I trust you.” Not waiting for any follow up to this he strode off in the direction of his office, a location which during recent months had mostly been used for sneaky daytime sex.

The chances of that happening today were minimal, thought Porthos gloomily as he dried off the last droplets of rainwater and donned his whites, ready for a day in charge of the kitchen. At the beginning of the year, nothing would have made him happier, but things were different now. Milady de Whatsit was going to have to put up a bloody good fight if she wanted to reclaim her husband.

 

—


	14. Chapter 14

After a fortnight of non communication, Porthos was beginning to feel as if he were losing his mind. He and Athos weren’t arguing, in fact there was a level of politeness between them that had never been present before, Porthos treading on eggshells and Athos mentally withdrawn.

“Have you got time for a quick chat?” he asked Aramis, once they had finished cleaning their stations. 

Aramis checked his watch. “Always, mon ami,” he said with a broad grin. “Anything for you.”

Now that Autumn had arrived, the outdoor dining space was rarely used by customers, except on occasional fair weather days. Currently it was deserted, not even a single straggler having a cigarette at the benches, and so the two friends took cups of coffee outside and sat beneath one of the oversized canopies. 

The sudden cold snap was so biting that Porthos reached up and switched on the overhead heater. “Have you noticed anything strange about Athos?” he asked as he sat back down. There was no point in beating about the bush.

Aramis frowned. “Not particularly,” he said. “He’s not in the kitchen as much as he used to be, but other than that all seems well. He’s not drinking again, is he?”

“No, nothing like that.” Porthos shook his head. “It’s just that he’s been pretty quiet since his meeting with the solicitors. Kind of moody, I suppose.” He shrugged. “And we haven’t fucked for a while.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows. “How much of a while?”

“Couple of weeks.”

Aramis laughed and patted him on the back. “That’s normal, Porthos. Nothing to worry about. You’ve been together for a few months now. You can’t honestly expect to keep going at it hammer and tongs, the way you were at the beginning. You’d wear each other away.”

“I guess so,” said Porthos but he remained unconvinced. Sex didn’t just turn off like a tap.

“If that’s all that’s troubling you then relax,” advised Aramis. “It’s ridiculously busy here at the minute, plus Treville and Athos are in the middle of updating the menus. Give the man a break.”

Porthos wasn’t an expert at long term relationships, but he had an inkling that neither was Aramis. One thing he _was_ sure of however was that increased covers and a change in season at La Garnison definitely wasn’t the cause of this chasm opening up between Athos and him. “He’s pulling away from me,” he said, biting at his lip. “And he’s been dreaming a lot. Mostly about Milady. Calling out for her in his sleep. Calling her by her real name.” He may as well admit to his fears. “I think he might be regretting their divorce. What if he wants her back, Aramis? What do I do then?”

Aramis looked sympathetic. “What _can_ you do?” he replied with a shrug. “Love is what it is. We can’t help our feelings and neither can we change them on a whim. If Athos doesn’t love you then you can’t force him to do so.”

“Fucking hell,” muttered Porthos, wishing that he could turn back the clock. “I hate this. Why did I have to fall so hard for him?”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re wrong,” said Aramis. “I’m certain Athos is still as crazy about you as you are him. Let’s face it, he’s hardly the most talkative chap at the best of times and getting divorced is notoriously stressful. My advice is to be supportive, but make sure you give him enough space to work through whatever might be bothering him. If his sleep is disturbed then he’s hardly going to be on top form at the moment.”

“You're right, bruv,” said Porthos, draining his coffee cup. “Thanks for the advice. From now on I’ll be the most laid back boyfriend in the world.”

“And if all else fails, try tickling a confession out of him,” said Aramis. “At least it’ll get you physical again.”

“I might just do that,” said Porthos wishing his grin didn’t feel so forced.

*

Being laid back, attentive, and comforting, all at the same time, was a tricky combination, especially for a man like Porthos who wore his heart on his sleeve and yearned to be his usual demonstrative self. But even through these dark times, he adored Athos, wanting to hold his hand as much as he longed to fuck him, missing that sense of closeness.

There _were_ signs of hope. Athos may have been withdrawn, but he wasn’t removing himself physically, still sleeping in the same bed and never once hinting that he was planning a move back to his own flat.

With regret, Porthos learned to leave the man alone, not pestering him when he was in one of his moods, but instead working quietly away at his own creations. 

Right now he was keeping himself busy in the galley kitchen at the flat, designing a new winter chowder recipe for the restaurant. The name of a particular spice eluding him, he grabbed the nearest phone and was about to open up a search tab when Athos glanced up to see what he was doing and then leapt out of his seat, charging over to snatch the device out of his hands.

“Use your own,” he snapped. “It’s not exactly far away.”

“Didn’t think it would be a problem,” muttered Porthos. They’d never been possessive about this kind of thing before.

“It’s not,” said Athos, looking shifty as fuck as he poked randomly at the screen. “It’s just that I’m waiting for a call from my lawyer.”

“Fine,” said Porthos, tasting his soup and ignoring the lie. “Whatever.”

But after another full week of icy politeness, his head was in a total mess. He couldn’t put up with any more of this crap. Athos was now being ridiculously possessive with his phone, carrying it everywhere with him, even to the bathroom, and when he did get a chance to take a sneaky look, Porthos found that the lock code had been changed.

“There’s no need for this shit,” he said, doing what he should have done weeks ago and confronting Athos with the truth. “You want her then go ahead and bloody have her. I won’t stand in your way. I’m not going to play the victim any longer.”

“What are you on about?” Athos looked totally baffled. “What are you actually accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” said Porthos. After all, he had no proof of wrongdoing. “But I’m pretty sure that the last thing you want to do is get divorced.”

Athos pulled back. “And how did you leap to this fantastic conclusion?”

“It’s pretty obvious.” Porthos shrugged. “You barely speak to me. You can’t bear me being close to you. You dream about Milady all the time. You won’t let your phone out of your sight for a second. Shall I go on?”

Athos reached out for the first time in weeks, his fingers brushing against Porthos’ arm. “I swear to you that you’re wrong. In fact, you couldn't be further from the truth.” Taking his phone out of his pocket, he unlocked it and handed it over for forensic examination. “See for yourself,” he said. “No midnight calls to Milady.”

Porthos scrolled through the log and checked all the social media apps, hunting for any evidence that Athos had been in contact with his wife, but there was none. It wasn’t total proof of innocence, but the man _had_ offered up his phone immediately without time to delete anything. 

“I’m sorry,” said Athos. “I’ve behaved terribly and I have no excuse. I want our lives back as much as you do.” He took hold of Porthos’ hands. “Please forgive me.”

“Of course I do and I’m happy to give you all the space you need,” replied Porthos. “But don’t shut me out again. I can’t take it. I love you.”

“I love you too,” replied Athos. “More than I ever thought possible. More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

With work to go to this was never going to end up in bed, but Porthos was happy enough with some resolution. It was only later, when he was up to his ears in badly behaved soufflé, he realised that Athos had never actually revealed what was bothering him.

*

Things were definitely on the mend between them. Not perfect, but gathering momentum and headed in the right direction. However for some reason, known only to his subconscious, Porthos had started suffering from disturbed nights, jolting awake, covered in a pinprick sheen of sweat. It was as if there was something lodged at the back of his mind, trying to free itself, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what it was. 

If Athos woke with him they made the best of the situation, kisses and cuddles leading to half an hour of intensive aerobic workout which left them both ready for sleep once more.

“Mmmm, that was good,” murmured Porthos on one of these occasions, his lips pressed against the back of Athos’ neck. “Wanna go again?”

Athos laughed. “As if.”

Porthos reached down and massaged his cock, surprising himself as it tingled with excitement and began to fill. “Try me,” he said, feeling more than a little proud of himself.

“Sex pest,” smirked Athos and yet he was more than happy to pull up his legs accommodate Porthos who slid inside with a groan of pleasure.

“Sex pest I might be,” he said as they fucked. “But I reckon you enjoy the attention, mister.” Athos was pressed against him, hard as an iron bar. “I could do this all night.”

“We mostly have been.”

“So we’ll be tired at work,” said Porthos, rolling them over until Athos was on top. “The trade off’s worth it.”

With knees clamped tight against Porthos’ sides, Athos began to ride him with a syncopated rhythm that was all his own. Hand wrapped around his cook, working it hard, he fucked Porthos hard enough until the stars appeared in their bedroom.

With the edge taken off from their earlier sex, Porthos couldn’t enough of this, sucking a chain of bruising kisses onto Athos neck, fingers exploring every inch of skin. “So fucking good,” he moaned, continuing the theme with an endless litany of praise that culminated in ‘I love you’s’ and yet more kisses.

“Treville’s going to kill us if we’re late again,” yawned Athos as he settled into Porthos arms.

“Yeah, I know.” Porthos switched off the phone alarm and let his eyelids fall closed free, from worries. It was Autumn. Nothing ever happened in Autumn.

The slower pace of life during the last quarter of the year was suiting them very well indeed.

*

“October’s definitely the quietest month as far as bookings go,” said Porthos. “Do you reckon Treville would consider getting a couple of temps in so that Athos and I could go on holiday?”

D’Artagnan looked dubious. “Maybe,” he said. “He didn’t mind Constance and I having time off together.”

“But that was your honeymoon,” said Porthos. “ _And_ we had Sylvie to cover as Maitre d, plus five chefs in the kitchen.” He sighed loud and long. “Bollocks.” A vacation somewhere warm and beautiful would give Athos and him a chance to reconnect fully, but it all seemed like a bit of a pipe dream. 

“There’s no harm in asking,” said d’Artagnan. “The boss has been in a pretty good mood recently. I think profits must be skyrocketing.”

But then, out of the blue and with a sense of timing that was spectacularly ill fated, Storm Treville chose to break once more, the sound of the thunderous yelling putting every member of staff on high alert.

“Aramis! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Spoke too soon,” said d’Artagnan with an apologetic look. “I suppose we’d better go and see what’s up.”

Porthos had a sinking feeling he already knew. Colliding with Athos, who was racing out of his office in the direction of the epicentre, he sighed when he saw Aramis and Anne Bourbon standing together in a state of dishevelment that could only mean one thing.

Treville was currently pacing up and down in front of the unhappy couple. “If you’re going to do such an abjectly stupid thing, you could at least have the decency to keep it out of my restaurant. Are you trying to make life as difficult for me as possible?”

“No, M Treville,” said Aramis. “Absolutely not. It was just a whim.”

“Let me get this straight.” Treville stopped in his tracks and glared ferociously at the pastry chef. “You decide, on the spur of the moment, to get down and dirty with the wife of Paris’ most brutal food critic, in the linen store of _my_ restaurant. Then you have the audacity to tell me it was on a bloody whim. Why Aramis?”

“I don’t know,” said Aramis, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “The excitement. The danger?”

“You want danger then I’ll show you dangerous,” yelled Treville.

“Don’t blame Aramis,” said Anne quietly. “It was as much my fault as his. I was the one who came here to see him. I apologise for our thoughtlessness, but it’s not what it seems.”

Treville made a sound that was all too close to the fearsome roar a grizzly bear would make before it charged. Ignoring Anne, he continued to lash out at his chef patissier. “I warned you not to get involved with her, Aramis, and yet you blatantly ignored me. I see this as proof of absolute disrespect and I have no choice but to fire you immediately.”

“But M Treville,” interjected Porthos.

“But nothing,” growled Treville. “All of you get back to work.” He rounded on Aramis once more. “Except for you, M d’Herblay. Collect your belongings and get out of my restaurant now.”

“Don’t be so hasty, Treville,” said Athos, stepping up to the battle lines. “Aramis is excellent at his job and we have no one to replace him. Please reconsider.” He lowered his voice. “You’re shooting yourself in the foot, my friend.”

“I don't give a damn,” barked Treville.

“Well, I do,” Athos barked back. “I’m head chef here and I decide who works in my kitchen.”

“Do you pay his wages?” said Treville. “No you bloody don’t, so shut up. One more word from you and you’ll also be getting your marching orders.”

“Athos, don’t,” said Aramis, taking him by the arm and pulling him to one side. “No point in making this any worse than it is. Clairmont’s a good enough pastry chef to get by, for the time being at least. I was stupid and I apologise.”

“Five minutes and I want you out of here for good,” said Treville, marching away from them up the stairs and hammering the life out of each tread on the way to his office.

“We’ll sort it out, bruv,” promised Porthos, wishing, with the benefit of hindsight, that he had been more critical of Aramis’ affair with Anne, at very least insisting that he kept it away from La Garnison. “Give the boss time to calm down and you’ll soon have your job back.”

“I’m not sure I want to work for a man like that,” said Aramis. “He wouldn’t even hear us out.”

“That’s because we were the ones in the wrong,” said Anne quietly. “Although not as wrong as everyone appears to think.”

Porthos was confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Life is rarely as clear cut as it seems,” said Athos, laying a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “I’ll talk to Treville again. Rest assured, this is not over.”

 

—


	15. Chapter 15

With things going from bad to worse to impossible, Porthos shelved the idea of a holiday and concentrated instead on trying to keep the good ship Garnison afloat. As Aramis had mooted, Clairmont was a fairly decent pastry chef, but he was a plodder in the kitchen and relied on the others far too much, slowing service down to a snail’s pace..

“Any luck?” Porthos asked as soon as Athos appeared.

“What?” Athos seemed surprisingly startled by such a simple question. 

Porthos frowned. “You said you were interviewing a possible patissier?” 

“Sorry, I was miles away.” Athos shook his head as if he were trying to clear it. “I did and she was good, but she doesn’t want to leave her current position. I don’t blame her to be honest. She has an army of pastry chefs under her and a regular timetable of days off.”

“I thought we were getting to that point,” grumbled Porthos. “Why is Treville being such an obstinate git?”

“Years in the army,” explained Athos. “He hates insubordination. Whilst it’s quiet I’ll go see if I can smooth some more waters. My spies tell me that Aramis is dining with Anne at Cardinal tonight.”

“Blimey,” interrupted Porthos. “That’s bit blatant of them seeing as Louis spends a whole lot of time there.”

“Once we’re in receipt of all the facts then we can pass judgement,” said Athos gently. “In the meantime-“

“I know.” Porthos grinned and leaned over to peck Athos on the lips. “I’ll shut my big mouth.”

“I’ll be most happy to keep it occupied later,” said Athos. “When we’ve sorted out Patissiergate.” His smile faded. “If I can persuade our erstwhile pastry chef to apologise then Treville may back down.”

“I wish you luck,” said Porthos gloomily. Despite his sunny temperament, Aramis had a stubborn streak a mile wide. “He shuts down every time I bring up the subject.”

“Today will be different,” said Athos with determination. He approached Porthos, wrapping an arm around his waist and reeling him in for a proper full on kiss. “You have no idea how much I love you.”

The public declaration was unexpected and Porthos experienced a rush of joy so intense that he wanted nothing more than to steal Athos away for a quickie. Anywhere would do — except perhaps the linen store.

“Me too,” he said, during a break between kisses. “Now bugger off before I have to fuck you right here on the counter and frighten the apprentices.”

“I’m going,” replied Athos. “I’ll see you.”

The period of quiet was short lived. With a sudden influx of last minute customers, the depleted kitchen team were rushed off their feet, barely managing to keep up with the flood of orders from front of house.

“Athos, where are you?” muttered Porthos, wiping the sweat from his brow and tying a fresh bandana around his head. The good ship Garnison was about to founder on the rocks. “We’re sinking fast.”

“Never going to happen,” said d’Artagnan. “We can do this. There can’t be many more customers waiting for food. It’s a Wednesday night, for crying out loud. Who goes out on a Wednesday?”

Porthos had to admire the way the young man kept chivvying the apprentices to perform better until even Clairmont was churning out plate after plate of perfect desserts.

“Who needs Aramis?” said d’Artagnan, slapping their current pastry chef on the back once service was finally over.

“I do,” gasped an exhausted Clairmont. “Please make him come back. I never want to go through that again.”

As for Porthos, he couldn’t agree more with this sentiment, the absence of both Aramis and Athos weighing heavily on his soul. All he could hope for was that the smoothing of the waters was going well.

With the tidying of the kitchen now well under way, Porthos was relieved to hear the ringtone of his phone. Taking a brief time out, he wiped his hands on a cloth and answered without even registering who was calling. At this late hour it was only ever going to be Athos.

“Hey,” he said. “How are things?”

It was a surprise to hear Aramis’ voice at the other end.

“You need to get down to Cardinal right now,” his friend said urgently. “Athos has lost his mind.”

Porthos felt sick. “What do you mean? Is he drunk?”

“I have no idea.” Aramis was clearly panicking. “But he has a gun and he’s threatening to kill Milady. Richelieu will call the police if I don’t talk him down, but he won’t listen to a word I say. You have to get here now.”

“On my way,” said Porthos, already charging upstairs. “Try and keep him calm and I’ll see you in ten.”

Fist raised, he was about to bang on the door of Treville’s office when it swung open of its own volition. “Athos is in trouble, boss. I need to borrow your car.”

“I’m way ahead of you.” Treville raced past him down the narrow staircase, leaving Porthos for dead. “Come on, man. Hurry up. We haven’t time to dawdle.”

Getting around the centre of Paris by car was notoriously difficult and Treville’s Mercedes rarely moved from its parking space. Porthos was itching to sit in the driver’s seat, certain that he’d get there quicker, but it turned out that the boss was a speed demon behind the wheel.

“What could be up with Athos?” he asked as Treville swung the car around a bend.

“I was hoping you’d know more than I do.” Treville glanced sideways at him. “He hates Milady. Working with her was putting him into an early grave and I was hoping that being away from the place would sort him out. I was really pleased when you two started going out together. You’re good for him.”

“Not good enough apparently,” muttered Porthos, hanging on for grim death as Treville careered through a narrow archway at breakneck speed. 

“I can’t understand where he could have got hold of a weapon,” said Treville launching himself out of the car and breaking into a run. “He’d long since let go of any military connections.”

All of a sudden that scrap of information that had been keeping Porthos awake at nights dislodged itself. Fuck! He’d been so busy looking for Milady’s name in the call log of Athos’ phone that he’d totally missed Charon. 

In seconds Porthos overtook the boss and attempted to yank open the rear door of the restaurant, but it was securely locked. “Fuck!”

“Let me,” said Treville, tapping in a series of numbers into the keypad and then holding open the door for Porthos. “Upstairs. Quick as you can.”

It was late and the restaurant was thankfully deserted, with only service lights illuminating the way.

“Up to the top floor,” said Aramis, indicating a smaller staircase. 

“Be careful,” warned Anne. “I think he might be drunk. He’s certainly not rational.”

The sight that greeted Porthos was terrifying. Wild eyed, Athos had his arm locked around Milady’s throat and was pressing the barrel of a pistol to her temple.

“Hey,” said Porthos in a gentling voice, the one he used to rouse him from his nightmares. “Don’t do this, Athos. Give me the gun and come over here.”

“She deserves to die,” said Athos. “She has to die. She’s dangerous. The most dangerous person alive.”

“You can talk, darling,” said Milady, sarcasm dripping from her lips despite her current predicament. “I’m sure everyone here will believe you when you say that.”

The cruel way she enunciated the endearment made Porthos sick to his stomach. No wonder Athos had hated it when unknowingly he had used the word.

“I will not have this kind of carry on in my restaurant,” said a voice from the shadows. “I’m calling the police immediately.”

The speaker emerged, thin as a lathe, iron grey in every way, but with an air of gravitas that no one could ignore. 

“Give us five minutes, Richelieu,” said Treville. “If the papers get hold of the story of a hostage situation in your establishment then your reputation will be damaged and your business will suffer.”

“And if your cook shoots my Maitre d’ in cold blood then Cardinal will suffer far more at the hands of the gutter press.”

“Five minutes,” begged Treville.

Richelieu glowered. “See what you can do.”

Oblivious to the rest of the conversation, Porthos stepped forward until he was close enough to Athos to speak at low volume. 

“Talk to me,” he said. “Tell me what this is about.”

‘Some much needed resolution,” said Athos. “Justice.” As he spat the word out his finger tightened on the trigger and the gun trembled in his hand.

“Justice for who?” asked Porthos, trying not to think about blood and bone and brain matter. 

“My brother,” said Athos. “She killed him.”

“I certainly did not,” said Milady. “He took care of that himself.”

“Only because your lies drove him to it.” Athos closed in on her and, minus the weapon, it might have been mistaken for a loving embrace. “Why didn’t you just admit that you and he were having an affair when I found you together? Why do such a despicable thing and say that he raped you?”

“He was never exactly gentle with me,” said Milady through clenched teeth. “It was rough and it was brutal and he was vicious.” She conceded enough to make a world of difference. “We were both vicious.”

“Then why do it,” breathed Athos.

“I suppose we wanted to hurt you. To make you notice that we existed.” Milady wilted in Athos’ arms. “I loved you,” she said. “I wanted you to love me the way you once did. I only turned to Thomas because you were no longer interested. I was never going to press charges against him. It was you who wanted to go to the police.”

“You think I don’t know that,” raged Athos. “I struggled enough living with the fact that he killed himself, but then to have you blithely inform me, years later at our divorce settlement, that there was no rape and it was all just some twisted fantasy on your part.”

Athos lost focus long enough for Porthos to take advantage, diving in to retrieve the gun, then removing the clip and throwing it to Treville for safekeeping. After that it was only Athos that mattered. As far as he was concerned, the whole world could go to hell.

“It’s okay now,” he murmured, lips to Athos’ temple, a gentle mimicry of the cold mouth that had so recently been pressed to Milady’s own head. “We’re fine. We’re all fine. It’s all good.” 

“Richelieu, call the police,” said Milady, recovering her composure and angry now that she had confessed her feelings and weakened herself in the process. “I want my husband arrested and charged with assault.”

“Do that and I’ll report you for falsely accusing a man of rape,” said Treville. “You didn’t deny it and there were plenty of witnesses to attest to the fact.”

“I have friends,” said Milady, her lips twisting into a smile. “In very high places.”

“As do I,” responded Treville, swift and curt. “Do you really want me to prove how many?”

Milady backed down. “This will not end here,” she said. “I do not deserve to be treated this way.”

“And neither did Thomas,” said Athos in a quiet voice. “But unlike him at least you still have your life ahead of you.”

“Though you will not be living it at my restaurant.” Richelieu aimed an icy glare at his Maître d’ Hotel. “I suggest you, along with that dreadful cook you recommended to me, go play havoc with someone else’s reputation. I no longer have need of your services.”

“Aramis and I will happily step in and help you out if you’re short handed,” suggested Anne. 

“Don’t even think of poaching my pastry chef,” growled Treville. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” smirked Richelieu. “Your little team has a tight bond. Let them go forth and cook their hearts out.”

“Watch out, Armand,” said Treville. “If you’re not careful, people will suspect that you too have a functioning heart beneath all that leather.”

To the collective astonishment of their audience, Richelieu, the coldest, meanest restaurateur in Paris, began to chuckle.

“To hell with people, Treville. It’s late. Come upstairs and have a damn nightcap.”

*

Back at La Garnison, a group of bewildered friends, lovers, colleagues gathered together in the bar area of the restaurant, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

“So much for possession of the facts,” growled Porthos, his arms latched tightly around Athos. “You were supposed to be smoothing the waters, matey, not causing a bloody hurricane.”

“Aramis was at Cardinal,” shrugged Athos. “I thought I may as well kill two birds whilst I was there.”

“You prat.” Porthos shook his head. “You weren’t actually going to shoot her, were you?”

“I suppose not,” admitted Athos. “Though I despise her and have no issue in continuing to do so. The problem is that I never forgave my brother, nor will I ever have the chance to do so now.”

“He chose to sleep with your wife,” said Porthos, as blunt as always. “You didn’t make him do it. Neither did you have anything to do with him topping himself.”

“Porthos is right,” said Aramis. “Listen to him and let it go, mon ami. We can never hope to untangle our messes. We must just learn to live with them.”

“To problematic relationships,” said Anne, raising her glass. “Long may they prosper.”

“Not one of us is untouched by them,” remarked Constance, smiling at the woman. “And on that subject, I think we all deserve an explanation about your little triangle. Tell us about you and Louis.”

“Ours was a marriage based on a mutually beneficial arrangement,” said Anne. “Louis is gay and wanted a beard to dine out with. I wanted to break into the world of food journalism so he and I helped each other out. He was an infuriating partner though, so in love with Richelieu that he refused to critique Cardinal in any way, even when the food there was dreadful.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “I should perhaps resent that remark.” 

Anne laughed. “If you had ever been there to cook then maybe so, but you were far too busy wallowing around in alcohol and misery.”

“Agreed,” conceded Athos.

“So why did Louis eventually get the hump with Cardinal?” asked Porthos.

“Because from somewhere he’d got the idea that Richelieu was sleeping with Rochefort,” explained Aramis. “When in fact Rochefort was actually sleeping with Milady.” He looked apologetically at Athos.

“Good luck to them,” remarked Athos. “Both equally vile. They couldn’t deserve each other more.”

Porthos pulled a face. “Well, King Louis’s going to get proper mad now when he finds out Richelieu's having it off with with Treville.” He looked around at everyone. “I did read that right, yeah?”

“I believe you did,” nodded Aramis.

“I wonder how long they’ve been screwing?” mused d’Artagnan.

“I have no idea,” said Athos. “And I refuse to give it headspace, though I’m certain we should stop reading our reviews from now on.” He turned in the safe circle of Porthos’ arms. “You and I have some important business to finish. Come with me.”

Hoping that ‘business’ had a lot to do with cocks and sucking, Porthos followed obediently, surprised and more than a little disappointed when they headed outside rather than upstairs to the office.

By now, it was ridiculously late and their quiet quarter of Paris was all tucked up for the night. Stopping at their usual spot on the bridge, Athos snaked a hand into Porthos’ jacket pocket and withdrew the gun, dropping it like a hot potato into the slow moving waters of the Seine, where it proceeded to sink without a trace.

“Probably should have wiped off our fingerprints first,” remarked Porthos.

“Why? It hasn’t been used for a crime,” said Athos.

Porthos was amazed at how adorably innocent of the twists and turns of life his partner was. He stared down into the deep darkness of the river, wondering how many dirty secrets it held in its locker. “No more lies,” he said. “If we’re going to work as a couple, I need you to be open with me about everything.”

“Then I have one more thing to confess,” said Athos. “I’m sure Treville won’t mind us borrowing his car.”

—


	16. Chapter 16

“Where are we going?” asked Porthos for the umpteenth time since they began their road trip. 

Dawn was on its way and the sky was brightening by the second. The rosy blush was turning the French countryside into an impressionist painting, and if he hadn’t been so shattered he could have appreciated it better. As his eyelids began to shutter he blanked out twice in quick succession and was heartily relieved that it was Athos who was doing the driving. If he had been in control of the Mercedes then without a doubt they’d have ended up in one of those roadside ditches.

Swerving to avoid a tractor, Athos turned suddenly into an overgrown entrance, waking his dozing passenger, head slamming against the side of the door.

“Sorry,” he said full of remorse. “The hedges need some serious cutting back. It’s all too easy to miss the drive. That’ll have to be remedied very soon.”

“What are you on about?” questioned Porthos, extra bleary after the rude awakening. He then looked about him in amazement as they pulled up to the front of a long low building. “Where the hell are we?” He fell into a spiralling well of panic. “We’re not here to meet your family, are we?”

“In a way, I suppose we are,” replied Athos.

Panic deepened. Christ, what would a bunch of posh relatives think of him, wondered Porthos. Turning up here, unwashed, unshaven and so tired he was barely able to string two syllables together, let alone a sentence.

“How could you do this to me?” He hissed, trying to flatten his unruly hair down with the sweaty palm of a hand.

“Stop worrying,” smirked Athos. “There’s nobody here but us and a crypt full of de la Fère corpses. I told you before, my family are all dead.”

“Your parents and your brother yes, but how was I to know you hadn’t got a grandma stashed away somewhere. Or some aunts and uncles.”

“I promise you I haven’t.” Athos linked an arm into his. “All I have is you.” He surveyed the greying façade of the building. “And this place. Let me show you inside.”

Weathered was a polite way to describe the outside of the chateau and so Porthos wasn’t expecting an awful lot when they entered through a set of heavy double doors. What he subsequently discovered stole his breath clean away. The floors were of newly restored oak and the original panelling must have recently been brought back to like and now gleamed with a healthy sheen of oil. The grandiose stone fireplace was full of logs, ready to be lit and the draperies which adorned the curtain rails and cushions scattered across the window seats were made of a fabric which was a modern twist on traditional French tapestry.

“This place is—” Porthos stopped and did a double take, harking back to what Athos had said earlier. “This is yours?”

Athos nodded. “My dirty little secret that I needed to come clean about. Anne tried her damndest to lay claim to it, but it’s been the home of the de la Fères for generations and as such she had no right of ownership. I was happy to hand over the deeds to the townhouse in Paris and in the end she was satisfied, once I had thrown in a large pot of cash and some very expensive jewellery which I didn’t think would suit you.”

For the first time in his life Porthos was struck dumb. “But,” he said eventually, picturing the tiny hovel of a bedsit Athos had once called home. “Why did you stay in that shithole in Rue Ferou?”

“Actually, I’ve been staying with you for the last few months,” corrected Athos with a half smile. “The truth is that for five years all my efforts and money were directed at this place. When everything became too much, it was my solace. My therapy, I suppose you could say.” He turned to face Porthos. “I love it here and I’m hoping you’ll consider sharing it with me.”

Porthos was unsure quite what to say. He was not at all certain that he was ready to give up his ambitions and live out a quiet rural life in the French countryside. “The thing is I love cooking,” he said. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“Me too,” said Athos and led Porthos further into the chateau, guiding him across another vast space and then through some double doors and onwards into the biggest, brightest most well equipped industrial kitchen that Porthos had ever seen. 

Finally he understood Athos’ vision of the future and plunged headlong into the dream. “You want to run the chateau as a restaurant,” he said, his eyes widening at the enormity of this.

“Our restaurant,” nodded Athos, his own eyes bright with excitement. “Not exactly Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons, but a less expensive, pared back version perhaps. Le Manoir, I thought we could call it for simplicity’s sake. 

“Not a hotel?” questioned Porthos who had no desire to delve that deeply into the hospitality industry.

Athos shook his head and holding on tightly to Porthos’ hand he continued on with the tour of the chateau. As they reached the foot of the curved staircase he looked upwards. “The top of the chateau will remain private, just for us.” He paused. “Would you like to see?”

As yet unable to form thoughts into words, Porthos nodded and followed Athos up to the next level of the house. He was certain that this floor would be in need full restoration, but, much like downstairs, it was immaculate and smelled of beeswax and linseed oil, with just a faint aroma of ancient smoke.

“Once I had fallen in love with you I made sure it was looked after, but kept it as a blank canvas,” said Athos. “I was hoping that you’d help me choose the furnishings and decoration.” Hands in his pockets, he stared out of the window. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s incredible,” said Porthos. “I think it’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

“And?”

“And what?” Porthos was stumped. What else was there to say?”

Athos turned and for the first time in months there was a tentative, slightly wary look in his eyes. “You haven’t said yes, Porthos. Do you want to live here with me and run our own restaurant together?”

Porthos couldn’t believe his ineptitude. “Yes, yes, a thousand yeses,” he said, illustrating his answer with a thousand kisses to match. I can’t imagine anything, anywhere, anyone more perfect.” Then his face fell. “But what about Treville. I won’t leave him in the lurch, Athos. He’s been a father to me.”

“Treville is my dearest friend and I’d never do anything to hurt him, or dream of going behind his back,” replied Athos, his arms tightening around Porthos’ waist. “He knows all about my plans. He’s seen this place and is perfectly aware that I want to steal you away from La Garnison. In fact, he’s given us his blessing. This is why he’s been taking on so many extra staff and also why I was determined to resolve things between him and Aramis.”

“Which you’ve managed to do.” Porthos grinned. “In a pretty unorthodox way.”

“Ways and means.” Athos shrugged. “Actually, I’m slightly miffed that Treville knew everything about me, warts and all, and yet he managed to keep his affair with Richelieu top secret.”

“Banging your arch nemesis and keeping it quiet adds to the excitement,” said Porthos. “We tried it, remember.”

“And were total failures, if I recall correctly.”

“But not at the banging,” said Porthos, filled with a sudden urge to get down and dirty.

“That part we got right straight away,” smirked Athos as he reached down and deftly stripped Porthos of his t-shirt with practised ease. “Albeit with a few months of squabbling as an aphrodisiac.”

“I like to think of it as foreplay,” murmured Porthos, sucking kisses onto Athos’ neck as two sets of agile fingers went to work on buttons and zippers.

After an hour or two spent proving how good they were at sex, Porthos groaned and attempted to get to his feet. “Buying a bed is top priority,” he said. “Tell me the plumbing’s working.”

“Not til next Tuesday,” said Athos and then he grinned at the horrified expression on Porthos’ face. “I’m teasing you. The bathroom’s through there,” he said, pointing at a door. “Go shower and stop moaning.”

“Come with me,” insisted Porthos, reaching out and hauling Athos to his feet.

The cubicle was vast, designed to match the size of the house, and Porthos revelled in it, testing out all the different settings and then succumbing to the greatest pleasure of all and pushing Athos back against the tiles, soaping him all over, lathering up his hair and then rinsing him clean. Kissing was an inevitable follow up to this and they made out under the jets of water until both men were overheated and ready to go again.

“Oh,” cried Athos as Porthos knelt and began a slow suck. “You’re so fucking good at that.”

It was the only time he ever swore and, around a mouthful of cock, Porthos smiled with contentment, happy in the knowledge that this was his future perfect.

*

“We need to employ more housekeeping staff,” grunted Porthos as he raced up the the stairs for the sixth time in half an hour, carrying a bundle of guest towels.

“No, we don’t,” called Athos, his voice echoing around the hallway. “We’re not a damn hotel.”

“Right now we bloody well are,” replied Porthos from the landing. 

“It was your idea to invite all our friends at the same time as a test run,” said Athos. “Put the towels in their rooms and then come and have a cup of coffee with me. You need to calm down.”

“No time,” gasped Porthos, checking his watch. “Is the fountain in the lake working yet?”

“Nope.” Athos shook his head. “Probably won’t be until next week.” He shrugged. “Or the week after. The parts have to be shipped in from the UK.”

“Can you please stop being so casual about everything?” begged Porthos.

“Absolutely not.” Athos joined him on the landing, taking the stack of towels away and then soothing Porthos with a hug and a back rub. “If you get any more hyped up I’ll have to use my failsafe relaxation technique and then our friends will arrive to find me on my knees and you in a compromising position.”

“We could lock ourselves in the bedroom,” suggested Porthos, the easing of tension manifesting itself in a deep sigh.

“Better still, you could go to the kitchen and immerse yourself in some cooking,” said Athos, his palm still circling across Porthos’ tense shoulders. “I’m sure the team could do with a few pointers from the boss. In the meantime, I’ll finish off up here.”

“I love you,” replied Porthos. Now that he’d been immersed in Athos for so long he couldn’t even remember what it was like to be alone. There was nothing better than sharing his life — not even cooking.

“I love you too.” Athos pressed a kiss to his mouth. “Now do what you do best and go dive into some saucepans.”

“I really love you,” said Porthos, still loitering.

“I know you do.” Athos waved him away. “Now bugger off and stop being a nuisance.”

After an hour or so of mooching around the kitchens, tasting, seasoning and advising up and down the chef’s line, Porthos got the nod from Athos that a miniature convoy was on its way up the drive.

“Shit,” he muttered, then reminded himself that it was just their friends — and a rather forbidding plus one.

In his home surroundings, at ease with the universe, Athos was the most genial of hosts, welcoming everybody and showing them to their rooms to settle in for the night.

Aramis greeted Porthos with the usual kisses. “You’ve certainly fallen on your feet, mon ami.” He looked around him. “What a place you have.”

“It _is_ pretty cool,” replied Porthos, proud of his new home, although still slightly in awe of it after only a couple of months living here. “Ask me again when we’ve been open a while how much I like it then.”

Aramis laughed. “This is your dream, Porthos. Roll around in it. Wave your arms and legs in the air and enjoy every second.”

“You do me a power of good,” grinned Porthos, tucking an arm affectionately around Aramis. “Let’s see what you think of the kitchens.”

*

Once dinner was underway, Porthos found that he could relax properly. With his friends all seated around one long table, he leaned back and surveyed the scene with utter conviction that this was the life for him.

“Lily’s fine,” announced Constance, returning to the table after checking in with her mother who was on babysitting duties. “She’s not even missing us.”

“It’s so good to have a night out,” said d’Artagnan. “Thank you for inviting us.”

“Thank you for coming,” replied Athos, topping up wine glasses.

“Do you think we’re too far out of Paris to be a success?” asked Porthos.

“Anyone would drive an hour for food this good,” said Treville, waving a fork as emphasis.

“I’m sincerely grateful that you’re too far away to be competition,” added Richelieu.

“Have you two ever thought of a joint business venture?” asked Anne, always the inquisitive journalist.

“Good god no,” chuckled Treville. “We’d kill each other.”

“We’ll carry on as we are,” agreed Richelieu. “It’s worked well enough for the last ten years.” He smiled at Treville. “Here’s to the next.”

The longevity of their relationship should have come as a surprise to Porthos, but somehow, seeing them together, it made perfect sense. He and Athos were another odd couple and he had no doubt that they would still be together decades down the line. “To the future,” he said, raising his glass.

*

Having been alone since they had moved in to La Fère, it was strangely comforting to hear the sounds of people getting ready for the night. After a while the atmosphere settled and just occasionally Porthos could pick out the creaking of beds and the hushed murmurs of love making.

“Who’s doing it, d’you reckon?” he asked with a snort of amusement.

“All of them I should imagine.” Athos rolled onto his stomach, kissing a delicate path across Porthos’ hairy chest and down through the fur of his belly. “The place has a seductive resonance.”

“It’s good for fucking,” said Porthos, threading his fingers into Athos’ hair and tugging gently. “Say what you mean.”

“I can talk for hours.” Athos looked up at him with a mischievous grin. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Either way it’ll get me off. Everything you do with your tongue is pure sex.” Porthos stroked a thumb across Athos’ cheek and then, in a surprise move, curled both arms around him and yanked hard, dragging him upwards in order to kiss him thoroughly.

Breathless and entwined they lay together, kissing, touching, pressed close and intimate until with a series of thrusts they came, one followed immediately by the other.

Afterwards, Porthos buried his head in Athos’ neck and breathed in his scent. “I can’t believe we can still get off like that.”

Athos held on tight. “The taste of your mouth, the sound of your voice, the feel of your body against mine. Everything about you turns me on.”

“My sweet talking, beautiful man.” Porthos shifted until Athos was resting against his chest. Stay like this. I love having you close.”

“G’night,” murmured Athos, already most of the way to sleep

As usual, morning came all too soon, the screech of the barn owls replaced by the crowing of cockerels from all around them.

The two men made breakfast for their friends, happily working together as that well oiled machine of old.

“It’s nice this,” remarked Porthos. “Just us in the kitchen.”

Athos glanced sideways at him. “If I said we had enough money to live here without the hassle of running it as a restaurant, what would you think?”

“I’d tell you to stop being a pillock and to plate up those eggs before everything goes cold,” grinned Porthos as he patted off excess fat from the sausages. “Now take the bread out of the oven and make some coffee.”

“Yes, Chef.” Athos saluted him with a finger. “At the double, Chef.” He smiled, open hearted and full of happiness. “Love you, Chef.”

“Moi aussi,” replied Porthos, quite literally jumping for joy with his fist raised in the air. “And have I ever mentioned how much I bloody love our life.”

*

Le Manoir was preparing to open its impressive double doors to paying customers for the first time and if Porthos had thought he was nervous cooking for his friends a month ago, then it paled in comparison to this. His stomach was churning, his heart racing and then at twenty five past seven in the morning he knew that death was inevitable when he received the worst of all telephone calls from Athos.

“Why are you calling me?” he demanded, looking around him in confusion.

“Now I don’t want you to get all worked up,” said Athos, ”but we have a slight problem.”

A million scenarios came instantly to Porthos and he tried to whittle them down, wondering which would be the worst — a broken oven, a flooded kitchen, a fire in the dining room. “What’s happened?” he growled.

“Pierre just called,” said Athos. “He has food poisoning and there’s no way he can cook tonight.” There was a pause. “It’s not so bad. At least he’s only the pastry chef.”

“Never let Aramis hear you say that,” replied Porthos and then a lightbulb clicked on. “It’s Monday.”

“Thank you,” said Athos sarcastically. “That really helps solve our current problem.”

“Of course it does, you pillock,” said Porthos and promptly hung up, probably resulting in a very bad tempered partner, sulking somewhere in the building.

Picking a name from his contact list, he dialled, pacing up and down and praying it wouldn’t go to answer phone.

“Hello, my friend,” said Aramis. “I thought you’d be a busy man right now.”

“Question is, are you?” said Porthos. “Our patissier has come down with gastroenteritis and we’re up the creek without a bloody paddle.”

“I’m on my way,” said Aramis. “Give me a couple of hours and you’ll have puddings coming out of your ears.”

“Thanks, mate,” said Porthos. “I knew I could rely on you. See you soon.”

Slipping his phone into his pocket, he turned to address the kitchen staff. “Stop gawping, guys. Panic’s over so get on with mise en place.”

“Yes, Chef,” chorused the team. 

_Their_ team, realised Porthos. The ones who would mean the difference between success and failure. They were young, ambitious and ready to take the culinary world by storm.

Leaving them to it, he made his way through front of house, inspecting every detail as he went. True to his word, Athos had happily taken Porthos’ design ideas on board and the entire building was a fusion of their style — a perfect match for the kind of food that would hopefully be emerging from the kitchen in just a few hours time.

“For the record, I hate being hung up on,” said Athos who was up to his ears in fresh flowers and utterly baffled if the look on his face was anything to go by. “How can floristry be so damn difficult?”

“Next time we’ll get a designer in to do them,” soothed Porthos. “How much mess have you made?”

Snipping randomly at stems, he stuffed blooms into antique vases in hope that they’d look vaguely rustic.

“That works,” said Athos. “Clever man.” His lips twisted into a half smile.” So what time is Aramis arriving?”

Porthos grinned. “I suppose my plan _was_ pretty obvious.”

“He’s your go to man.” Athos raised an eyebrow. “Emergencies always happen on first night and a backup is essential. Why else do you think I suggested opening on a Monday?”

“Because it’s the quietest day of the week.” Porthos took a deep breath. “At least it’s supposed to be.”

Word had spread quickly that Chef Athos de la Fère was opening a new restaurant with his partner, and the tables were already booked solid for fortnight. The online reservation system was a boon, but at the same time a limitless nightmare.

“If we’re shit...” he continued.

“We won’t be,” assured Athos, an arm snaking around that broad shoulder. “It’s simply not possible with you and I in the kitchen. We’re good together.”

“We’re fucking golden,” said Porthos, turning and dipping his head to steal a kiss. “We can do this.”

At half past ten a car sped up the long approach to the chateau as if it were taking part in a rally. 

Porthos looked up at the sound of wheels slewing to a halt. “Our sharpshooter’s arrived,” he shouted but as he stared out of the window he then amended his previous statement. “Make that a whole company of Musketeers.”

Out of the Mercedes spilled Aramis, Treville and d’Artagnan, each of them laden with boxes of food.

“We do keep ingredients here,” said Athos with a raised eyebrow as their friends pushed past him, heading for the kitchen.

“Couldn’t be sure,” said Aramis. “I didn’t want to risk it. It’s not as if you have a supermarket around the corner.”

D’Artagnan’s stack of boxes wobbled precariously in his arms. “This place is amazing, but I don’t know how you can bury yourself in the country.”

“I do it joyfully, filled with relief that I no longer have to try and teach you to make sauces,” said Athos, knowing exactly how best to wind the young chef up.

“I can make hollandaise with my eyes closed,” retorted d’Artagnan. “I’ll show you.”

“For God’s sake, stop nattering,” urged Treville. “We have puddings to prepare and a restaurant to tidy.” He gazed in horror at the mess of leaves and stalks covering the floor. “All of you, get cracking.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Porthos, convinced that everything was going to be fine now that the boss was holding the reins.

“You don’t need me,” said Treville firmly. “You’re damn good chefs, so go prove it to the world.”

And prove it they did, plate after plate of excellent food emerging from the kitchen to the delight of their customers.

“I can’t thank you enough,” said Porthos, shaking each member of the chef’s line by the hand once service was over. “You’re all amazing.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Athos. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”

Their friends weren’t overlooked and a group hug ensued, from which both Athos and Treville disentangled themselves as quickly as possible.

“We need to get on the road,” said d’Artagnan with regret.

“Indeed we do,” said the boss. “My own restaurant won’t run itself.” He waved a finger at Athos. “Don’t you dare try and poach my pastry chef when I’m out of earshot.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” smiled Athos. “Not after the lengths I went through to get you back on speaking terms.”

There was nothing Porthos wouldn’t love more than having Aramis by his side in the kitchen, but he’d never consider stealing him away from La Garnison — not yet, anyhow. “I’ll stick to poaching eggs,” he said, patting Treville on the back. “Thank you so much for everything. You’re the best.”

Saying a final farewell to the three men turned out to be an emotional ending to a fantastic day. Shattered and somewhat overwhelmed, Porthos and Athos returned to the kitchen to finish the clearing.

“Go home,” said Athos to chefs and kitchen porters alike. “Porthos and I will do the rest. Get a good night’s rest and make sure you’re here at the crack of dawn. We have another busy day ahead of us.”

With the kitchen immaculate and all the major prep done for tomorrow, the two men fell into bed, too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

“We did it,” murmured Porthos. “Told you we were bloody golden.”

*

Mind comprehensively blown, Porthos zipped up his flies and attempted to school his blissed out features before emerging from the linen store.

“That was the best blowie ever,” he said, kissing Athos. “But I thought we agreed to keep the fun times away from the workplace.”

“Extenuating circumstances,” explained Athos. “Just making sure you were nice and relaxed when I told you the news.”

Porthos frowned. “I hate news as much as I hate surprises. This ain’t good, is it?”

“A little bird has informed me that Louis Bourbon’s dining here tonight.”

“Oh fuck,” said Porthos with feeling. “Well, that’s going to go really well for sure.”

“Don’t be despondent,” said Athos. 

Since losing both his wife and his objet d’amour in one fell swoop, everyone had been hoping that the lovelorn food critic would slope off somewhere quietly to lick his wounds. Instead, he had been busier than ever, writing stinging reviews in every edition of the newspaper.

“Says the man who once described him as mean, sycophantic and cruel,” said Porthos, even more gloomily. “And that was _before_ he had cause to hate us.”

“Have faith,” replied Athos. “Everything will be fine.” 

Unfortunately tonight had taken it upon itself to go down in history as the service of a thousand disasters. Souffles collapsed, fish was sent back riddled with bones, and due to a bad case of miscommunication, the salt cod stew was double seasoned with chilli and spices. 

Athos, in charge of running the pass, was furious with everyone, including himself.

“Why choose now to prove our incompetence?” he seethed through gritted teeth, not wanting his voice to carry through to front of house. “We must do better.”

Irritated beyond belief that neither of them had tasted the food sufficiently, Porthos dug deeper and worked like a demon to rectify the mistakes, soon putting out food that easily exceeded his best.

“My caramel is slightly over, Chef,” said Pierre. “Will it do?”

“No. Make it again,” said Porthos, glancing at the pan. “From now on nothing leaves this kitchen that isn’t perfection.”

It was a downhearted duo of chef/owners who made their way into the lounge to speak to Louis.

Athos bowed his head stiffly in greeting. “Monsieur Bourbon, we are pleased to see you here at Le Manoir. I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

“It was a long way to come for such a dining experience,” replied Louis. “Your food has changed considerably, Athos.”

Athos nodded in agreement. “Porthos and I are working together on a new style of cooking. We are much less formal nowadays.”

“You most certainly are,” said the critic with a shrug. “Please tell me when my taxi arrives.” He dismissed them with a wave, but then added, as a rather odd afterthought, “Do either of you hunt?”

Porthos glanced at Athos and both men shook their heads in unison.

“Shame,” said Louis. “It’s the only use I can possibly see for the countryside.” He mock shivered. “A dreadful place.”

“Did he mean that our restaurant is dreadful?” growled Porthos once they had escaped back to the safety of the kitchen. “If so I’m going straight back out there to teach him some bloody manners.”

“No, you’re not,” said Athos. “You’re going to smile and you’re to say goodbye to all the customers, and then we’re going to take a bottle of brandy to bed and be very grateful that tomorrow is our day off.”

“Sounds like my kind of plan,” said Porthos, already feeling better. “Can we also have a shitload of drunk and dirty sex?”

“Of course,” smiled Athos. “As long as you’re not too tired.”

“Never too tired for a proper filthy, cheer up fuck,” grinned Porthos.

When morning arrived, the brandy remained untouched and two men lay spooned together, virginal in their innocence.

“Would it be really bad to get drunk right now and stay in bed all day?” Porthos stretched and yawned, then sneakily situated himself between Athos’ spread legs.

“Let’s save the booze for later and spend all day doing sober, dirty sex instead,” suggested Athos.

*

It turned out that they weren’t just innovative when it came to cooking; they were also developing some serious skills in the bedroom department. Sex wasn’t only a great way of relaxing, it was also was good for taking their minds of that imminent review column in the newspaper.

Going round and round in circles, trying to fathom out what to do with a glut of plums from the orchards, Porthos was more than happy to be distracted by his ringing phone. “Hello, mate,” he said, picking up immediately.

“You sod,” chuckled Aramis. “How much did you have to pay the little fiend to pen that critique? Although crit is hardly the word for it.”

“Shut up,” yelled Porthos, “I haven’t read it yet.” 

Discarding his phone, he went on an immediate hunt for Athos, panting with exhaustion when he finally discovered him soaking up some sunshine on the terrace. “Review’s in. We have to get to the shop now.”

Fifteen minutes later, they sat together on the wide stone wall that surrounded the village store, the dreaded newspaper clutched between them.

“You read it,” insisted Porthos.

“I didn’t bring my glasses,” replied Athos.

Unconvinced, Porthos glanced at him, but rather than waste time arguing, he scanned the pages, hunting for the correct section. “Okay, found it,” he said, folding the paper back on itself and taking in a deep breath of air. “Here goes.” As he began to read his jaw dropped lower and lower. “Situated in the countryside, an hour’s drive north of Paris, on first inspection Le Manoir seems at best unpromising, at worst an utterly depressing place to spend an evening. The food, however, turns out to be an eye opener and makes the journey worthwhile. 

Chef Athos de la Fère has eschewed his modern take on classic cuisine in favour of a more engaging rustic style, and this, combined with his partner, Porthos du Vallon’s heavily spiced Caribbean delights, packs the kind of flavour that smacks you in the mouth and then French kisses you lovingly better.

The only thing that could improve Le Manoir is a bed for the night and a spot of hunting on the estate in the morning. So if you want to experience, joyful, trendsetting food that will set your palate on fire, then visit this hidden gem as soon as a table becomes available. I assure you, you will not regret it.”

Porthos finished the review and, stunned beyond belief, returned to the beginning to re-read it, silently this time, mouthing the words as he went along.

“I assume you didn’t replace the negatives for positives,” said Athos, leaning over Porthos’ shoulder to double check.

“Nope,” said Porthos. “It’s right here in black and white.”

“I don’t mind admitting when I’m wrong,” said Athos. “It seems M Bourbon is a gentleman after all.”

“Long live crazy King Louis,” grinned Porthos.

“Now, now.” Athos appeared to have mislaid his melancholia. “Less of the crazy. The man is clearly a genius.” He stood up, holding out a hand. “I think we need to report to the kitchens post haste and tell everyone that we have a successful restaurant business on our hands.”

 

— end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and feeding. I’m ridiculously grateful, as always, and will get around to replying to comments as soon as the dreaded hay fever lets up.
> 
> Xxxx


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